


Strange Magic

by justalongthemirroroferised



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: AU, Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC) Spoilers, Canon Compliant, Canon Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Geralthasaheartofgold, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Grumpy Old Men, I like Triss a lot, Inspired by The Witcher, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalongthemirroroferised/pseuds/justalongthemirroroferised
Summary: Life in Toussaint was perfect, idyllic even. Anyone would have been happy to spend the rest of their days basking in the sun and drinking excellent wine, but Geralt was bored. A nearly impossible contract suddenly manages to pique his interest, sending him back onto the Path. He should have heeded the warning signs; Toussaint was once again in danger.  Sequel AU to Blood & Wine.





	1. She Got a Nickname?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's me again, starting another fic while I have, hmm let's see...three other fics on the go? I'm sorry, I promise that I will finish the other ones (or at least one of them) as soon as I can! I just needed to get this idea down on paper before it disappeared. You know how it goes! I hope you like this one, I'm super excited to start writing about one of my favourite characters of all time.

The sun beat relentlessly upon the banks of the Sanscretour, turning the surface of the rapidly moving water to liquid gold.  An insistent breeze tugged at carefully coiffed hair and feathered caps, swirling the warm scent of sunlight and fragrant blossoms into the early evening air. 

The witcher emerged from inside the Cockatrice Inn, blinking hard in the bright light.  He'd spent the day ridding the tunnels underneath the docks of scurvers; he hadn't had a chance to readjust to the daylight yet.  That was the one thing he didn't like about this place, when he left the darkness of a cave or tunnel the light was usually so blinding that he developed a splitting headache.  

Geralt's overly dilated pupils throbbed in response to the almost overwhelming brightness, and he irritably swigged a bottle of White Honey, neutralizing the effects of the Cat potion that made his eyes more reactive to light. 

A tiny, silent sigh escaped out of him as the burning in his eyes stopped, and he could feel his pupils immediately contracting back down to a more comfortable size.   He leaned against the wooden balcony railing, closing his eyes and listening to the birds as the sun set.  

He followed up the potion with a generous helping of fresh trout, eating quickly and messily, ignoring the twittering of locals who watched him with thinly veiled disgust.  He was used to it; he was too old to give a shit about what they thought of him.  He supposed that he could have picked a less-fancy tavern; he would willingly admit that the company could be a little bit too stuffy for his liking.  

He happened to like this one though, it had an excellent view of the river and the valley surrounding Anna Henrietta's duchy.  And the goose liver pate really was delicious. 

He waved his hand at the innkeeper for a drink.  He'd been to this inn enough times that the innkeeper knew that his gold was good, so he barely had to ask for anything here.  It was a nice change; witchers were treated differently in this part of the world.  He made quick work of his first two drinks, watching as the sun slipped below the horizon.  

He couldn't help rolling his eyes as he drained his third pint of ice-cold beer; one merchant seemed to have a problem with the rate at which he was going through beverages.  Geralt was a damn witcher; there was almost no way that he could get drunk while drinking normal alcohol.   

It had been a long, hot day and as far as he was concerned, he deserved a damn drink.  

  
_It's a shame that there's no White Gull in this place, then it really would be a party._

He made the conscious decision to ignore the gossiping man, choosing instead to concentrate on the energetic game of Gwent (that was growing more competitive by the second) currently being played two tables away. 

 _Should have chosen the monster deck_ , he thought, shaking his head as the loser of the game grudgingly handed over his full purse to the winner.  Only in Toussaint would people dare to walk around with that much gold on their person.  

He glanced down, his brow furrowing as he turned his attention back to his meal.  Without thinking, he'd traced out the shape of his medallion in the condensation that his beer had left on the table.  He stared at it for a moment, his thoughts whirring along at a good clip as he stuffed his last piece of warm bread into his mouth.  

_Huh. Guess that's as good of an omen as I'm gonna get._

Geralt finally set down his tankard, turning his attention to the battered piece of paper that he had just pulled from his boot.  He pursed his lips in thought, reading over the contract with what looked like cool indifference.  Inwardly, he was about as thrilled as a witcher could be.  

It looked like an easy job, and the pay promised could keep him off the Path for at least two years.  He smirked slightly, slightly disappointed that he couldn't brag about it to Lambert.  Before he'd stopped at the inn where he currently sat, he'd paid a visit to the executor of the contract and had accepted the job.  

Absently, he scratched at his three-week old beard.   _Time for a bath and a shave before I leave._

He tossed several heavy gold coins on the table, nodding at the innkeeper as he stood.  His armor clinked, and his twin swords rattled against one another as he strode down the wooden staircase that led to the common room.  He passed inside the building for a moment as he left, ignoring the rowdy scene within. 

It was just another day, and another bar fight, although this one had quite a bit more velvet, feathers, and declarations of honor than he was used to. 

Toussaint was so unlike anywhere else in the world that it may as well have been in another dimension.  After all that he'd seen, it wasn't the strangest notion that he'd ever heard. 

He liked it.  

His feet carried him towards home, leaving his mind free to wander.  It had been nearly a year since he'd decided to settle down in Toussaint.  His vineyard was doing quite well, all due to the tireless work of Barnabus-Basil, his overenthusiastic majordomo.  He had grown used to the warmth of the sun and the good food, Toussaint had set the bar so high above Velen and even Skellige that it was laughable. 

But Geralt was bored. 

His expression settled into a frown as he thought, moving quickly through the countryside.  It was beautiful, and warm, (and the Duchess Annarietta wasn't mad at him anymore for admitting to her Dandelion had once again taken on many a lover since he'd last been to visit) and people weren't so hell-bent on swindling him out of an honest day's work.  

That was the problem, it was too beautiful.  Geralt had spent so long living on the Path that he somehow felt like he was betraying who he was by staying in this gilded paradise.  He would have left long ago if Triss hadn't been so happy to spend time with him here. 

But she'd been in Kovir for several months and he was literally and figuratively itching to do something exciting.  Sure, he'd had plenty of bruxae and alps to hunt, but there was only so much hissing and Black Blood that he could take before he wanted something novel to liven up his everyday routine.  

A contract was a perfect choice.  He trudged up the winding pathway to his grand house, breathing in the scent of freshly cut grass and sun-ripened vines.  Corvo Bianco was finally starting to feel like a home, but he was still loath to admit it. 

He snagged a handful of fruit as he passed by a conveniently hanging vine, chuckling softly as he imagined the scolding he'd have received if Barnabus had been there to see him pilfer from his own wine grapes.  

Munching contentedly, he eased the front door open, immediately shrugging off his swords and placing them on the foyer table with a clatter. 

As if he'd been summoned by some sort of silent bell, his estate manager appeared so suddenly that even Geralt was impressed.  "Master Geralt, you've returned at last!" 

"I've only be gone since this morning," the witcher replied drily, already unbuckling his armor as he made for his spacious room.  "I'll need a bath and a razor." 

"Immediately, sir.  Shall I pour you a glass of last year's vintage?"  The steward replied primly, already ringing a small bell and bowing graciously.  

"You have to ask?"  Geralt replied mockingly, the corner of his mouth ticking up at Barnabus' predictability.  "Do we have any of the White Wolf left?" 

"Yes, two bottles, I believe.  Is the master celebrating anything in particular?"

Geralt stopped at the top of the stairwell, looking down at the bespectacled man with a look that could have meant any number of things: derision, mockery, amusement.  "Nah, I'm just in a good mood today."  

"Excellent.  I'll bring it right up."  

Geralt didn't wait to hear his response; he'd already closed his bedroom door and shrugged out of his chest plate and gauntlets.  He made quick work of his doublet and boots, pausing only to inspect a long, shallow cut that marked his arm from his wrist to his elbow.  

Ignoring it completely (it would be mostly healed by the morning), he distractedly formed a sign and directed it towards the chandelier.  The candle wicks immediately burst into flame, bathing the room in cheery, flickering light.  He certainly didn't need the light to see by, but he liked the ambiance.  Plus, lighting the candles that way was kind of fun.  

He quietly wished that Triss was home, the house felt empty without her.  He missed her laugh and her somewhat acerbic humor.  He missed her fiery hair, and the way that her bright eyes would flash when she was annoyed.  He missed the way that she would sigh his name when she was happy, and the way that she would shout it when she was upset.  

He wouldn't have minded it if she was in the bath with him too, if he was being honest.  

Geralt wouldn't admit it, but he was secretly a romantic; it both amused and befuddled him daily. Something about Toussaint made him want to shower Triss with flowers and gifts.   _It's the damn knights, they set the bar too high._   The other half of the problem was that they made each other deliriously happy, he couldn't help wanting to make sure that it stayed that way.  

A flicker of warmth bloomed in his chest as he thought about his sorceress.  He settled into his copper bathtub and turned on the tap, sighing with contentment as hot water began to stream out of the spout. 

 _Plumbing, now that's the best part about this place_ , he thought, settling into the hot water and closing his eyes.  

He was alone for two blissful moments before the door flew open and Barnabus marched in with a plate of grapes, cheese, and bread.  He also held the promised bottle of wine; Geralt decided that he could forgive the interruption. 

"Thanks, B.B.," he murmured, lazily opening one golden eye.  "What's that?" 

He motioned to the piece of paper that was clutched in his butler's white-knuckled hand.  "Master Geralt, I must tell you that I disapprove heartily of this quest-" 

He cut off, sputtering and turning red as he struggled to find a diplomatic way to get his point across.  Unused to this strange behavior, Geralt's eyes widened slightly. "Go on."

"Master Geralt, this cock-and-bull-"

"Hang on," Geralt interrupted him, opening both eyes and surveying the small man with no small measure of confusion.  "What's the problem?" 

"This contract, sir, it's suicide!" 

Geralt settled back into his tub, taking a long drink of wine.  He felt a small rush of satisfaction; he was in the mood for a little danger. "Not for a witcher.  I thought we'd established that I'm not some idiot errant knight, I'm a professional."  

His tone grew steely, and B.B. wilted slightly before he drew himself up to his full height (which wasn't saying much) and brandished the contract in his hand.  

"I'm afraid that I must insist!  This-this  _falsehood_  of a quest has brought nothing but destruction and death to-" 

"Whoa-whoa-whoa, hold on," Geralt gave up on relaxing and sat bolt upright.  "What the hell are you talking about?  What's wrong with it?" 

"You have been bamboozled, I'm afraid," the small man wrung his hands and began to pace.  "The family who has offered the reward is destitute; they don't have a single crown left to their name." 

Geralt raised one eyebrow, nonplussed.  "What's the story there?" 

"Tragic, very tragic," the steward replied cryptically, blotting at his forehead with a very frilly handkerchief.  "It says here that you're being asked to find the daughter of the Baron of Pont-Montmartre, but I'm afraid-" 

"Happens all the time.  She probably fell in love with a Dandelion type, ran off to marry him.  She'll most likely be in one of the coastal villages,"  Geralt said calmly, settling back in the water.  "Her family wants the closure, and an assurance that she's married to the idiot." 

"Master Geralt, more than two score knights-errant have attempted to bring her home, but not one of them survived," he said firmly, adjusting his spectacles and surveying Geralt like a grumpy schoolteacher. 

"I have long suspected that the story was some kind of rumor, started by someone who wished to do harm to the family!  It bereaves me to tell you that the girl you've been tasked to find was killed by sickness fifteen years ago!" 

Finally intrigued, Geralt cracked one eye open and held out his hand for the contract.  "Give it here.  It says that she was last spotted in Fleurdelyse last month.  You're sure that she's supposed to be dead?" 

"Positive, sir.  The Lady Sophie-Marguerite Lajolie des Champs-de-Reglisse, patroness of Les Chanteuses-Saingantes and the LaCroix Finishing School has been dead for years."

"She got a nickname?"  Geralt asked drily, skimming over the contract again, a faint frown line appearing between his brows as he pored over the details.

"Sophie-Marie was her preferred address," B.B. responded stiffly, determinedly rearranging Geralt's razor and mirror on a small side table.  "I am very familiar with that look, and while it seems that I cannot dissuade you, I will continue to entreat you to leave it be." 

"Is there any proof?"  Geralt asked quietly, shaking the water off of his arm before running his hand over his face.  His beard was really starting to annoy him. "Faking a noblewoman's death is dramatic, but not unheard of."

"I have a close friend who was in charge of her funeral affairs. Open-casket, lovely service.  She was a beauty and a credit to the nobility," B.B. answered stiffly, his foot tapping as he waited for Geralt to respond to what he considered to be a critical revelation.   

"I already took the contract, it wouldn't be right to abandon it."  

“Very good, sir.”  Barnabus’s curt reply was uncharacteristic; clearly this contract had struck a nerve with him. "That is the correct, honorable choice."

"Thanks," Geralt replied, although there was nothing in his tone that implied gratitude.  "I'll be gone for a while.  If Triss comes home, tell her that I'm heading to the west.  She'll be able to find me."  

He had effectively ended the conversation.  He wasn't in the mood to talk Barnabus-Basil down and he had already made up his mind.  He'd wished for excitement, and it looked like his wish had been granted.  

"Naturally, sir."  

Geralt splashed out of the tub, irritated by the conversation.  He didn't direct his annoyance towards Barnabus however, simply nodded and dismissed him instead.  He began to shave with a casual hand, making quick work of his short beard and shearing his hair an inch shorter.  His mind spun, thinking over what this contract could possibly have in store for him.  

Whatever it was, it was sure to be entertaining.  A satisfied smirk turned up the corner of his mouth.   _That explains the pay.  It's a little hard to find a dead girl._


	2. This Doublet Itches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt pays a visit to the Duchess.

 

Geralt tugged impatiently at his velvet doublet; he was sweating profusely in the midday sun.  _I hate dressing up,_ he thought grumpily, trying to pop a few of the stitches that held his shoulders in an iron grasp.  He didn't like to wear anything that wasn't broken in, and this stuffy outfit had already impeded his sword work on several occasions. 

He flexed his shoulder blades vigorously, trying to stretch the garment out around his ribs.  

He finally felt several of the silver stitches burst, and he sucked in a grateful, unrestricted breath.  He rolled his shoulders experimentally a few times, already pleased by the improvement.  

He was nestled in the shadows between two marble statues.  He passed the time by watching the glittering array of court nobles make their leisurely, overheated way through the gardens surrounding the castle.  The people far below reminded him of butterflies, fluttering this way and that as they darted through the emerald grass and dipped their manicured feet into the brilliant turquoise of the small lake in the middle of the grounds.   The sounds of laughter and gossip drifted through the air, making the palace come alive.  

After the Night of the Long Fangs, Geralt had learned to appreciate the bustle of life around the palace.  He'd been there to see the same gardens fill with blood, and to hear the screams of the dying rip through the air as Detlaff's army had ravaged Beauclair.  

Anything was an improvement on that massacre, however he still had very little patience for the political game that the courtiers were so fond of.  He avoided it whenever possible; the constant questions about what life was like as a monster hunter got old fast.  He was treated like some kind of exotic pet by some of the older nobles, and it pissed him off. 

_You'd think they would know enough to leave a witcher alone.  I'm a lot nicer than most._

He didn't mind thepraise, it was something that he was sorely lacking anywhere else in the world.  He chafed a bit at the declarations of honor and friendship though, he hadn't risked his life for the citizens of Beauclair because he sought glory.  It was simply the right thing to do.  He still harbored some regret over Detlaff's death.  

All life was good life until something gave him a reason to think otherwise.  Except for necrophages.  Those creatures always got a hard no from him.  

Geralt took another bite of his apple, cracking his neck as he chewed.  He could tell by the position of the sun that he'd already been waiting for two hours.  It was a necessary evil that he had to endure if he wanted to see the person who he'd come to visit. 

The Duchess liked to keep people waiting.  At this point, he suspected that it was a family trait.  

His keen ears finally picked up on the sound that he'd been waiting for, the telltale clicking of chain mail and the nearly imperceptible rubbing of steel armor against a padded undershirt marked the arrival of his guide.   He tossed his apple core into a giant vase and stepped out from the shadows. He crossed his arms and waited expectantly for Damien de la Tour to make his way down the stairs that led up to the royal palace.  

"Witcher," the knight greeted him, stoic as ever.  "Her Enlightened Grace will see you now." 

"Thanks," he replied, striding up the hill to meet the group of overdressed guards.  "Is the escort for me?" 

"No, although I have no doubt that they could best you,"  Damien replied, losing a fraction of his stern expression as he motioned for Geralt to join him.  He set a good pace, striding confidently along the hill as they made their way up to the throne room.  

The guards that had accompanied Damien continued the other way, piquing Geralt's curiosity; they were bristling with weapons and moved as if they were on a mission.  "They have been assigned to something far more important than arresting you." 

"Sarcasm, Damien?" 

"No, I save that for my friends," Damien said shortly, abruptly turning and opening a neatly concealed door hidden in the shadows of the westernmost tower. 

"I'll take that as a compliment."  

Geralt didn't say anything further, he'd meant that genuinely.  Damien wasn't in the habit of showing any affection towards him; that was about as close to a handshake that Geralt was likely to get.  

His mood lightened slightly, and he clasped his hands behind his back as they continued upwards.  His eyes had no problem seeing in the dark, but Damien paused for a moment to let his human eyes adjust.  Sighing, Geralt decided that he'd better get the polite small talk over with.  

"How is her Grace?" 

"Very well, thank you.  She has quite recovered from the unfortunate circumstances that led to your last dismissal from court,"  Damien's curt reply was tempered by an almost imperceptible twinkle in his eye.  Anyone other than a witcher would have missed the way that his eyes softened and a small smile danced along the corners of his thin lips.  

"She has, once again, reinstated the banishment of the bard Dandelion from Toussaint.  I expect that your case on his behalf is what persuaded her Serene Highness to put off demanding his head," he continued, his armor clanking as they made their way through the opulent halls of the palace.  "She isn't likely to forgive him this time."

"Next time I might just let him make his own case,"  Geralt murmured, groaning inwardly.   _There are days when I'd like to leave Dandelion to deal with whatever noblewomen he's pissed off, but he's just going to get himself killed if I don't intervene._ "It's his own damn fault."

The velvet of his doublet was really starting to itch, and he resisted the urge to pull it off and throw it out of the nearest window.  Somehow he doubted that the Duchess would take kindly to seeing his myriad of scars on display.  

"Hm, yes, quite."  Damien's muffled reply made a  knowing smirk slide across Geralt's mouth; it was no secret that Damien was hopelessly in love with Annarietta. 

Damien didn't offer any further conversation, and Geralt was more than happy to walk with him in comfortable silence.  He was heading into a verbal spar of sorts, and he didn't relish the thought of doing the same with the captain of the guard.  

Just as they were about the enter the throne room, Geralt held up a hand to stop his companion.  "Wait, there's something I need to ask you." 

"Yes?"  Damien's expression gave nothing away of this thoughts, but Geralt knew him well enough to know that he was cautiously intrigued.  

"Can we meet tonight, after my audience with Annarietta?  I have a feeling that she's not going to be able to give me the answers that I'm looking for," he said carefully, trying to appeal to Damien's pride.  The captain pursed his lips in thought, drawing the angry red lines of his scar tightly across his cheek. 

"I don't like the sound of that, Geralt.  What aren't you telling me?  The last time that you kept me out of your circle of confidants, we ended up at war with a higher vampire."  

"Come in with me and find out," Geralt replied, indicating with a wave of his hand that they should continue into the great hall.  The look that Damien threw him was vaguely annoyed, but he opened the enormous stone doors nonetheless.  

"Announcing Geralt of Rivia, witcher of Kaer Morhen and Saviour of Beauclair," the court steward announced, spraying spittle everywhere as he fought to project his voice through the din of Anna Henrietta's midday court.  The noise level dropped considerably, but Geralt was still bombarded with sound from every direction; whispering didn't do much to hide a conversation from a mutant. 

"The court welcomes Damien de La Tour, captain of her Enlightened Highness' guard and military advisor to the Duchy of Toussaint!" 

Geralt didn't wait for the end of the introductions. He strode up the length of the plush red carpet that led up to the throne.  He performed an obligatory bow, staying bent over longer than was strictly necessary; he needed the Duchess to regard him with favor today.  

"Your Grace," he murmured, fluidly straightening up and crossing his arms.  The Duchess regarded him with mocking amusement, her bright eyes glittering with laughter as she took in the sight of Geralt in his uncomfortable doublet.  

"Geralt, you dressed up to come see me.  How nice," she called, encouraging her courtiers to murmur their agreement.  "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" 

"It's not a personal call,"  Geralt replied, raising an eyebrow and darting a glance at the crowded room.  "What I have to say isn't necessarily something that you want everyone here to overhear." 

"Why not?" 

"It's something of a sensitive nature," he trailed off meaningfully, glancing over at a group of young women who were doing their best to appear uninterested.  He could hear them speculating about the reason for his appearance behind the protective screens of their lace fans. 

Annarietta's eyes widened slightly, and she glared at the nobles who were clustered around the throne, still trying very hard to look like they weren't eavesdropping.  

"Very well, I cannot dissuade my curiosity.  Everyone,  _out_!" 

Her command rang through the room, prompting a flurry of movement to ripple through the crowd.  Throngs of well-dressed people began to exit in an orderly row, taking with them the overwhelming scent of perfume and wine.  As the great stone doors were slammed shut behind them, the Duchess stood up and crossed her arms, looking at Geralt expectantly.  

"Well?"  She demanded, tapping her slipper-clad foot.  Geralt inclined his head in thanks, motioning for Damien to join them.  

"Well, I took a contract recently that's sent my majordomo into a fit." 

"Why would I care about a witcher contract?"  Annarietta flapped her hand in dismissal and turned her back to them. "You've come to waste my time, I see." 

"Hardly, your Serene Highness,"  Geralt answered, fighting to keep his annoyance at bay.  He regarded her as little more than a petulant child; her behavior did little to change his opinion.  "It concerns the recent sighting of a noble lady who died a long time ago." 

"A wraith, perhaps?"  Damien offered, looking up at the dais where the Duchess stood. "There is no shortage of tragic ends in Toussaint." 

"Not sure.  I came here to ask you about the daughter of the Baron of Pont-Montmartre."

"Sophie-Marie?"  The Duchess asked softly, looking at Geralt out of the corner of her eye.  "What does she have to do with anything?"   

"She's the one who's been seen walking out and about.  Barnabus-Basil mentioned that she died," he prompted her, waiting for her to offer further information.

"Yes, she did,"  Annarietta said softly, finally turning to face Geralt as she hugged her arms to her chest.  "She was a very close friend of mine.  After Syanna...left, she was my constant companion." 

"I suspected that,"  Geralt said frankly, pulling the contract from his pocket and offering it to Damien.  "What I don't get is why forty knights have died looking for her  _after_ her death." 

He didn't miss the way that Damien's brow furrowed.  The captain knew something, just as he'd suspected.  _Hm._

"I need to know more about her," Geralt said bluntly, gesturing at the contract.  "What kind of person was she?" 

"She was very accomplished, fond of the arts,"  Annarietta said distractedly, tapping her finger against her chin in thought.  "She was always consumed by charitable works and her family's affairs.  As far as I know, she wasn't interested in any suitors.  Her entire life was dedicated to philanthropy." 

"Since it's her family offering the reward, there's something to the rumors.  Why are they penniless?" 

Damien shrugged, making his armor clank together. "Their land hasn't been fertile in years.  Once their vineyards stopped producing, the Baron was unable to find another venture that proved to be fruitful." 

"So they wouldn't offer money that they don't have if they didn't believe that the lady is alive,"  Geralt surmised, already considering several different explanations.  "She could have faked her death-"

"It's impossible!"  Annarietta's shrill outburst startled several pigeons into flight from the rafters.  "She died, and she is still buried in Beauclair.  Her spirit is under the jurisdiction of Lebioda-"  

"Do you have proof?"  He asked quietly, unimpressed by her volume.  

"Well, no-" 

"Then she might be alive."  His blunt response caused an angry flush to bloom on the lady's face and neck, and she planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.  

"I refuse to entertain the notion.  You've brought me a wild goose chase, Geralt-"

"My lady, I'm afraid that he is correct," Damien interrupted, a bright red blush settling into his cheeks as the Duchess directed her furious gaze towards him.  "She has been spotted several times a year for the last decade.  There is something afoot, and it is surprising that it took this long for a witcher to be consulted." 

"You kept this from me?!"  She turned on her heel and began to pace, her chestnut hair flying around her shoulders as she shook her head in fury.  "Is there no one here who thought that I should know about this?! Has loyalty been thrown clean out of the window?!" 

Damien fell silent, thoroughly reprimanded.  

Geralt couldn't help his flicker of annoyance, he sighed and directed his next question to Annarietta.  "Your Grace, is there any way that she could have been cursed right before she died?  It could just be her spirit walking around, but it sounds like there's something else going on here." 

She stopped pacing.  Her eyes narrowed as she considered his question.  "Perhaps. She fell ill very suddenly."

Geralt didn't respond; he was thinking.  

"I want you to get to the bottom of this, Geralt.  I refuse to let this question hang in limbo.  You will go to visit the Baron, and you will find me an answer." 

"I already accepted the job," he replied, bowing deeply.  He knew that he'd been dismissed.  

Annarietta sat down heavily in her throne, a pensive look in her eye.  "You helped Beauclair in our hour of greatest need, Geralt.  Now, I ask you a favor.  Find out everything, but be subtle.  I want to know why forty knights have failed to bring this woman claiming to be my dear friend back.  I will have justice for her memory." 

"I'll do my best." 

Geralt turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, pausing only to share a fleeting second of eye contact with Damien.  The captain nodded, almost imperceptibly, acknowledging that he would meet him later.  

_This is getting interesting._


	3. His Sleeping Armor is Better Padded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds out more from Damien. When he pays the Baron a visit, he quickly finds evidence of foul play.

Geralt settled into his chair, catching up on some much needed quiet time after his audience with the Duchess.  He carelessly put his boot-clad feet on the table, ignoring the small, indignant gasp from Barnabus-Basil as he caught sight of Geralt's lack of manners while he bustled past the dining room.  The witcher didn't really care, it was more comfortable to sit this way (and it stretched out his hamstrings quite nicely).  

He raised his wine goblet to his lips again, draining the last drop of alcohol.  It was a fruitier wine than he would have chosen, but it was cold and plentiful.  He contemplated his meeting with the Duchess as he ate his dinner, planning out his questions to Damien.  He couldn't shake his gut feeling that Damien knew a lot more than he'd let on, and a witcher's instincts were rarely far off.  

He heard Damien's arrival before he saw him. 

He replaced his feet on the ground and stood up, moving towards the sounds of a jingling horse bridle and clinking chainmail.  He opened the front door, raising an eyebrow at the elaborate suit of armor that the captain still wore.  

"Do you sleep in that rig too?"  He asked drily, a small smirk dancing around the corners of his mouth as Damien let out a rare chuckle and dismounted.  

"Thankfully, no.  My sleeping armor is better padded," the captain quipped, his reply muffled as he ducked behind his horse to tie the reins to a nearby tree.  Geralt waved towards his stables, where Roach had curiously stuck her head out of the partitioned door. 

"You can put your mare in there with mine.  Roach won't bite.  She keeps her mouth shut." 

He hoped that Damien would catch on to his non-verbal request as he gave a minute jerk of his head towards the wooden building.   _My steward is too interested in this case; we need to go where he can't eavesdrop._

Taken aback, Damien nodded and began to lead his docile steed towards Roach.  Geralt closed the front door behind him, effectively shutting out B.B., who was trying his hardest to act like he wasn't eavesdropping.  Geralt couldn't blame him; he and Damien weren't exactly close.  If they were spending time together, something was afoot.  

Geralt sauntered after Damien, waiting until they were fully inside the stables before he spoke. 

"Her Grace wasn't happy with you this afternoon," he drawled, leaning against the hay bin as Damien settled his horse.  "Did she thaw out?" 

Damien didn't reply for a moment, tying and retying the knot in his reins. 

"Yes, and no," he finally admitted, finally settling on a knot that would have made a Skelliger drool with envy.  "She has ordered me to help you in any way that I can." 

"Sounds like quite the punishment."  Geralt's dry reply was muffled by his closing of all of the barn doors.  He even threw the deadbolts home for good measure.  In response to Damien's raised eyebrow, he shrugged. 

"My majordomo is nosy," he said by way of explanation.  

As soon as the doors were latched properly, Geralt sat down on a bale of hay and surveyed the captain with his golden eyes; his cat-like pupils dilated in response to the rapidly darkening light streaming in from the skylight. 

"So, you were going to tell me about the baroness."  

"What do you want to know?" 

"Anything that might be useful, so everything."  

Damien sighed, slowly shucking off his armor and plate and settling into a comfortable position on another bale.  "It's quite a long story." 

"I have time." 

"Sophie-Marie's father was a very important man in Toussaint, while his money was still plentiful," Damien began, scratching his bald head in thought.  "She was firmly established as a very rich and powerful woman, on all fronts.  I heard rumors that she was going to be married off to a Nilfgaardian noble, which caused quite a stir amongst the knights vying for her hand.  Her father was in favor with the emperor, so her prospects were bright." 

"I thought she didn't have any interest in suitors." 

"She didn't appear to, however, that simply ensured that with each passing week that the young dandies became increasingly more desperate to gain her favor.  Her father had his pick of the nobles here, but it appeared that he wanted her to marry for love if she could.  I'm not sure if it was his idea for her to leave for Nilfgaard, or hers. I suspect she had a lover in the North."

"You think she was murdered by someone who was jealous?" 

"If so, the person who did it wanted her to suffer," Damien said bluntly, shaking his head.  "I don't believe so, but then again, we're a passionate people." 

"People do stupid things when they're in love.  Was she ambitious?"

"Yes, very." 

 "Any chance that she could have pissed someone off who she was competing with?  Anything that she did that could have put her at odds with anyone?" 

"I don't know, I wasn't privy to any of the private conversations that she had with her Grace," Damien said stiffly, clearly offended by Geralt's blunt style of questioning. 

Geralt decided that he didn't care.  He was working; there was no room for niceties, not when people were dying.  

"Hm," was the response from the witcher, who wasn't quite finished with his questions.  "What's the deal with Sophie-Marie?  Why did she have so many knights drooling over her?  Was it her money?" 

Damien shrugged.  "She was very beautiful.  There's very little that a besotted knight won't do for a pretty woman, and she was-" he flushed a dark shade of red, which clashed with his angry purple scar, "-ahem, a match for her Grace." 

"I see," Geralt chuckled, shaking his head.  "So, you knew her.  Annarietta's not a great judge of character; I want to know what she was really like." 

For a second, he thought that the captain was going to argue with him about the Duchess' knack for making friends with less than stellar people, but apparently Damien was forced to agree.  

"She was rather...discriminatory," he admitted finally, avoiding Geralt's steady gaze.  "Her lack of interest in anyone, even to the point of complete apathy, was something that she never grew out of." 

"You care to elaborate on that?" 

"She had a bad habit of ignoring those who weren't immediately useful to her," The captain said carefully, indicating with a wave of one hand that Geralt should fill in the blanks.  "Sophie-Marie was kind to her friends, but cold and unfriendly to everyone else." 

"Charming." 

"Hardly," Damien said stiffly, and Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently de la Tour was still learning what sarcasm was. 

"So, that still doesn't explain how she died or why so many knights have gone looking for her." 

"Yes, well, her death was quite tragic.  I'm sure the young men who went to find her were trying to give her peace." 

"Start with her death.  What happened?" 

"She left Beauclair for several weeks in the spring about fifteen years ago, quite suddenly.  When she came back, she was different.”

“Hm.  How so?”

“She was oddly kind to everyone, making arrangements for her school and leaving her beneficiaries quite a generous sum of money.  Shortly afterwards, she fell grievously ill." 

"Sounds like she knew that she was going to die," Geralt replied, leaning back and closing his eyes.  "What kind of illness was it?" 

"I'm not sure.  What I do know, is that it was very swift.  Her body was unmarked with physical signs of malady, but she died within two weeks." 

"Strange.  Did the family notice anything weird about the sickness?" 

"Besides the fact that no one else caught it, no.  They were, understandably, devastated by it." 

"Where's her body?"  

"At the southern end of Mere-Lachaiselongue cemetery, there’s quite an ornate memorial statue.  You can’t miss it.” 

“Figures.  I’ve probably walked past it.”

Damien’s reply was very quick.  "I wasn’t aware that you spent any of your leisure time in graveyards.”  

Geralt nearly snorted.  He knew the place well, better than he’d like to.  "Yeah, sometimes I have to.  I spent a lot of time with a higher vampire there last year."  

"You keep peculiar company, witcher."  Damien shook his head and stood up, refastening his armor.  "I'm afraid that I don't know any more." 

"That's not true," Geralt muttered, "You left out what happened to the knights." 

"They disappeared.  No one has found any trace of them.  No armor, no weapons, and certainly no documents explaining where they were going and what they were doing." 

Damien's irritated reply didn't bother Geralt in the slightest.  

"I'm gonna sum this up then.  She was beautiful, snobby, and rich.  Sophie-Marie didn't care for suitors, and she went on a vacation and then died."  Geralt wasn't terribly impressed with the conversation, but at least he had a couple of leads.  

"That's the essence of it." 

"Great.  Anything else that I should know?"   

  
"Yes, although I can't guess that it will be helpful to you.  There was some rumor that she even spurned a sorcerer's attentions, but I didn't give that much credit-" 

"Hang on," Geralt interrupted, his eyes narrowing to slits, "You didn't think to mention from the beginning that she might have pissed off a sorcerer?" 

"She wasn't entertaining _any_  suitors, it didn't seem important, what's another one-" 

"You don't get it," Geralt said curtly, crossing his arms.  "I've been on the receiving end of an enchantress' wrath, and let me tell you, she's more likely to portal you several miles just to drop you in a lake than talk to you after you've rejected her.  They're old, and they're beautiful, they don't get turned down often." 

"Portal you into a lake...?"  Damien asked slowly, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "If that's not a Common tongue idiom that I've never heard, there must be a story to that." 

"Yeah, there is," Geralt replied darkly, glaring at the captain.  He wasn't really in the mood to explain why Yennifer of Vengerberg had done just that to avoid talking about her feelings like an adult. 

She hadn't taken being dumped particularly well.  

"Any further questions?" 

"Yeah, plenty.  Who was the guy?"  

"I don't know." 

"Aren't you helpful.  I'll start there.  Her family is likely to know something about him.  Warlocks aren't subtle." 

Damien frowned, bending a piece of straw around his fingers as he thought.  "I believe he had blond hair, and two different coloured eyes.  But I may be incorrect, she died some time ago." 

Geralt sighed, standing up and opening the doors to the stable.  "Thanks. That'll be enough to start." 

"Work with haste, Geralt.  I have other things to do besides guide you through a contract," Damien muttered, striding past Geralt, his armor clinking.  His mare followed dutifully behind as he clomped into the courtyard and mounted.  He rode away without another word, clanking and banging away like a bag full of cans.  

The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitched into a smile as he listened to the racket echoing off of the foothills as Damien rode back to Beauclair. 

Geralt glanced over at Roach, who had quietly stepped over to nuzzle at his shoulder.  "Think I've got my work cut out for me?"  Geralt asked quietly, raising a hand to scratch at her ears.  

She let out a long, enthusiastic sigh and lipped at his sleeve.  He took that as a "yes" and smirked gently, patting her neck. 

"Time to get back on the Path, I guess." 

Roach huffed in response.  

"Don't be like that.  I never let you get hurt," Geralt grumbled.  

* * *

 

The next day found Geralt, once again, in the world's most uncomfortable doublet.  He hated velvet, he hated stitching, and he sure as hell hated that he'd spent twenty minutes cleaning his boots only to muddy them again as soon as he dismounted off of Roach.  Irritably, he ran a hand over his hair, striding towards the Baron of Montmartre's grand home.  

To his surprise, he was greeted politely by a butler, who ushered him into a grand foyer and lead him straight to a parlor adjacent to the Baron's study.  

_For a family who doesn't have any money left, they're living a pretty easy life_ , he thought, his curiosity piqued.  He took a moment to observe the finery around him, calculating the estimated worth of the knick knacks and opulent décor.  His eyebrow rose when his brain finally spat out a number, and his eyes narrowed. 

_That’s a lot of money.  Far too much for a destitute family.  I think I’ll have to do a little investigating._

He had a gut feeling that there was something fishy going on here.  It made no sense whatsoever that a Baron who was widely considered penniless would have several sets of candlesticks that could keep Geralt off the Path for six months. 

His mind flashed over several possibilities, most of which involved the sale of fisstech or counterfeit wine.  After the fiasco with the Sangreal wine, Geralt wouldn’t put it past anyone to fake ownership of rare alcohol (especially not a Baron who was once known for his vineyards).

He concentrated for a moment, activating his witcher senses and scanning over the house.  He wasn’t surprised to notice the entrance to a secret room hidden off the parlor.  He wasn’t picking up on any magic, or the scent of anything illegal, but he was still suspicious. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the butler, who ushered him up the small set of stairs that led to the Baron’s study.  Geralt nodded in thanks as he caught sight of the man of the house. 

The Baron wasn’t quite what he was expecting.

He was tall, broad in the shoulder, and sported a trim beard.  He stood at Geralt’s approach, nodding graciously as Geralt sank into a small, respectful bow. 

“My Lord,” Geralt murmured, straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back.

“You must be Geralt,” the Baron rumbled, extending his hand to shake.  Although he was slightly taken aback by the affable manner of the nobleman, Geralt shook it.  He kept his expression impassive, still analyzing every aspect of the man and his house before he came to a final judgement. 

“The Duchess sent word, didn’t she.” 

The lord chuckled, folding himself back into his plush armchair and steepling his fingers together.  “She did.  Anna Henrietta is not one to reign in her demands.  I’ve known her since she was a child, so I cannot say that I was surprised.  Please, sit.”

Geralt settled into another chair, crossing his arms and watching the baron with his amber eyes.  “You know why I’m here then.”

“I do,” the Baron admitted, running a hand through his thick hair.  Geralt observed that his hands bore the scars of swordplay, and his palms were calloused.  He clearly kept in good shape, and Geralt was surprised to see, despite the fact that the lord was easily in his early sixties, that he barely sported any grey in his hair or beard. 

“I won’t waste your time then.  Start at the beginning,” Geralt replied briskly, waiting expectantly for the man to continue. 

The Baron nodded, clasping his hands in front of him.  “Very well.  The contract was indeed written out on my orders.  I have no doubt that you have heard some of the rumours associated with my daughter’s death.”

“I have now,” Geralt replied carefully, his eyes narrowing to slits.  “The contract wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

“That is entirely my fault,” the Baron admitted, shrugging his broad shoulders.  “You see, I’m not entirely sure what to make of the situation.  But, it has become dire enough that I could not stand to ignore it any longer.”

“Tell me what you know about it…your lordship.”

Geralt hastily amended his request when the lord glanced at him in surprise, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.  There was something about the way that the nobility in Toussaint refused to put aside all of their stuffy airs, even in the face of tragedy or adversity, that rubbed him the wrong way.

It felt dishonest.  He wasn’t fond of any of the Northern lords, but at least they wouldn’t try to find a delicate way to communicate.  He was too old to put up with unnecessarily long explanations and too much formality. 

“Please, call me Giles. I haven’t done much to warrant my title in the last decade,” Giles murmured, pouring two goblets of wine and offering one to Geralt.  “I have a good feeling that we will be seeing an awful lot of each other, and, forgive my bluntness, you remind me of our Northern cousins, of whom I am quite fond.”

“Diplomatic of you,” Geralt replied, gratefully accepting the wine and taking a large gulp of the cool, fruity alcohol.  To his surprise, it was quite good.  It was also quite an expensive vintage.  

A _very_ expensive vintage.

_Hm._

“I have come to appreciate bluntness, good Witcher.  You would be amazed at how many people become unnecessarily verbose upon the arrival of their tax collector,” Giles replied drily, tapping his finger against the silver of the goblet.  “I assume you are the same, given your profession and your necessary requests for compensation.”

Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something dangerous about this man, so he didn’t respond right away.  It was something about the way that he’d phrased his indirect question; Giles was fishing for something.

Geralt thought for a moment before nodding and taking another sip of the wine.  “The job isn’t easy.  The money isn’t all of it though.  I’ll admit that I took this contract because of the reward, but I’ll stay until the end because I gave my word.”

“Very noble.  I respect that immensely.  Very well, I will give you a more detailed version of the story.”

Geralt waited for him to continue, subtly concentrating and sending the area of influence of his witcher senses through the room.  As his eyes flicked into the corners of the study, he felt his medallion vibrate slightly. 

_Hm.  Magic.  Guess I’ll listen to what he has to say and then figure out if he’s lying._

“My daughter, as I’m sure you’ve heard, was set for Nilfgaard.  She was quite eager to go, so I arranged for her to be accepted into the royal court.  When word reached us that our request was successful, she begged me to allow her to go to Kovir to purchase the most opulent of the North’s fashions.”

“And you let her go.”

“Naturally.  She was to represent our family in the North, my honour would not permit me to send her in such a state as to make her a target for the more firmly established noblewomen in the court,”  the Baron said firmly, eyeing Geralt over his goblet.  His tone had darkened, and Geralt was interested to hear that the human’s heartbeat had increased. 

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured, determined to diffuse the tension.  “If they smell blood in the water, you’re as good as dead.  Figuratively that is.”

“Precisely.  She took two of her handmaidens and my most trusted bodyguard and left for Kovir.  When she returned, she seemed to be in extremely good spirits.  She had managed to purchase what she needed, and she continued to make arrangements for her beneficiaries and see old friends before she was scheduled to leave.”

“Did you notice anything odd about her behaviour?” 

“Hm, not especially, no.  From what I remember, she was both excited and eager to leave.”

“Why the rush?”  Geralt asked bluntly, setting down his wine and lacing his fingers together. 

“I believe it had something to do with a disagreement that she had with the Duchess,” Giles said slowly, his eyes rolling up to the right as he tried to remember.  Geralt noticed of course, and was confident that he was telling the truth.

“Do you remember what the argument was about?”

“Frankly, I believe that Annarietta was angry that Sophie-Marie was leaving.  She was still married at the time, and she counted very dearly upon my daughter.”  The Baron’s tone grew slightly strained, and he swallowed loudly.  Geralt found it very interesting that his heartbeat increased once again.

“You disapproved of their friendship, didn’t you.” 

“It isn’t quite that easy, I wasn’t fond of the way that my poor daughter was expected to be available as a shoulder to cry on at all hours of the day.  Sophie dedicated her time to helping others, I fear that her beneficiaries suffered due to her constant exhaustion.”

“In what way?” 

“She was markedly less patient, less willing to forgive mistakes or idiocy.  Forgive my bluntness, witcher, but she simply did not have the energy to suffer fools.  Nilfgaard was a way to start fresh.”

“So she’s the one who brought up leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about her sickness.”

“It was abrupt.  She was of a healthy constitution, rarely ever caught cold.  She complained of a stomach pain, and then she came down with a fever.  She had chills, vivid dreams, and night terrors.”

“How long was she sick?”

“Ten days,” Giles replied sadly, running a hand over his beard.  “She tossed and turned until she finally fell asleep and never woke up-“ 

His voice cracked on the last word, and he hurriedly looked down at his boots.  Geralt didn’t press; he had no doubt that Giles truly was a grieving father. 

“Was there anything strange about the sickness?”

“Yes, although I did not notice it at the time.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, hoping that he would continue.  He didn’t like repeating his questions. 

“She repeated a phrase over and over again, she even scratched it into the wood paneling above her bed,” the Baron said hesitantly, his foot tapping nervously.  “However, as soon as she died, it was gone.  There was no sign of it.   We feared that she had been cursed, but there were no other indications.”

Finally, Geralt was getting somewhere.  He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes widening slightly.  “What was the phrase?”

“Deithwen.  I haven’t the faintest idea of what it means, but-“

“It means “white flame” in the Elder Speech,” Geralt said firmly; his concerns were confirmed.  There was magic involved in the lady’s death.  He wasn’t sure yet it if it was a sorcerer’s fault, or a curse, but he was determined to find out. 

“Elder Speech?  There are few elves in Toussaint, witcher.”

“They’re not the only ones who use it,” Geralt replied darkly, standing abruptly and striding towards the door.  He glanced over his shoulder at the baffled lord.  “Well, are you going to show me where she died, or not?”

The stupid doublet was making him cranky. 

His medallion began to vibrate once again as they ascended to the topmost room in the house.  As the door creaked open, moving slowly on neglected hinges, Geralt could smell the familiar burnt-sugar smell of magic. 

His suspicions were confirmed as his medallion continued to vibrate frantically against his chest; it felt like a second heartbeat.  Without waiting for the Baron’s permission, he stepped over the threshold and into the room.  A solid four inches of dust covered every surface, and he sharpened his vision and pushed his witcher’s senses farther out around him. 

Immediately, several things caught his interest. 

“Has anyone been in here since she died?”  Geralt asked quietly, sure that he’d figured out half of an answer to that question before it had even left his lips. 

“No, I don’t allow the staff to disturb it,” Giles said firmly, coughing into his sleeve as Geralt strode around the room, sending small flurries of dust into the air.  “Have you found anything?”

“Maybe.  It smells like old magic in here.  If no one has been in here, then why have those three items been moved?”  Geralt replied, indicating the items in question.  They were so obvious to him that they may as well have been glowing with light. 

_A mirror, a comb, and a feather quill.  They’re not covered in dust, and, the dust pile underneath them is smaller than the dust around the rest of the room.  They were moved, and for quite a while.  Hm.  Something is going on here, and I don’t like it._

“I beg your pardon?”

Geralt resisted the urge to sigh with annoyance and gestured at the items again.  “Those three things have been moved.  Someone‘s been in here without you knowing about it.  If I have my facts straight, you’re dealing with someone who is playing with dark magic.”

“Witcher, I beg you.  Please find out who is using my daughter’s image to do harm,” the Baron said quietly, clearly overcome with shock.  “I don’t understand why-“

“Yeah, well join the club,” Geralt grumbled, inspecting the mirror with a keen eye.  “I’ll need to do some research, but it’s more than likely that your daughter died of a curse, and that’s what’s keeping her from moving on.”

What he didn’t tell the Baron was that the kind of magic that he was talking about was necromancy. 

He wasn’t sure how he was going to find and kill the person responsible for taking the lives of so many young knights, but he always found a way to get the job done.  Besides, he could always ask Triss if she knew anything that could help him. 

“Who would do such a thing..?”  Giles whispered, clearly both shocked and horrified by Geralt’s observations.  He couldn’t blame the guy, but he wasn’t about to coddle him; he still had questions. 

“I heard something about Sophie-Marie turning down a sorcerer’s attentions,” he began carefully, watching Giles out of the corner of his golden eye, “Can you tell me anything about him?”

“Uh, yes.  He was from the North, perhaps Velen.  He was quite rich, and handsome, but my Sophie-Marie did not entertain any notion of remaining in Toussaint,” Giles replied distractedly, running a hand through his thick hair. 

“You got a name?”

“Yes, I believe his moniker was Gwaethe the Generous.  But, to be frank, I have not seen nor heard of him since her death,” the Baron said miserably, still staring at Sophie-Marie’s room with a face pale with shock. 

“That’ll do for now.  I’ll investigate and find out what I can,” Geralt said gently, his mind already whirring. 

_Gwaethe the Generous, huh?  It shouldn’t be too hard to track you down_. 


	4. He's No Fresh Mushroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt follows up on a couple of leads. Along the way, he discovers bad money, more questions, and something concerning.

**Hello! My gosh, I'm so sorry that it's been so long since my last update. I was overseas for a month and then I ended up with pneumonia, and then I moved houses! Long story short, it's been a wild two months. But I'm back! Thank you again for all of the support on this little trashcan story, it really means the world! :) xx**

* * *

 

The wind blew fiercely through the trees as Roach’s hooves thundered along the path to Beauclair.  The scent of flowers swirled into the gusting breeze and the sun began to make its slow, steady climb into the brilliantly orange dawn sky.  

_Not a bad day for a ride._

The road was quiet, and Geralt took a moment to watch as the sun’s bright light crested the mountains to the south and shimmered on the surface of the Sanscretour.  He had some time to waste, so he dismounted and sat under a tree, oiling his swords and armor as he waited for the humans to wake up and start their day.  He even took an hour to meditate, sinking deep into the icy calm of his contemplation.

His golden eyes snapped open as soon as the first market bells rang out across the hills, bringing the scent of fresh bread and coffee with them.  Geralt stood up and smoothly resheathed his weapons, flicking his hair out of his face and running a hand over his week-old beard. 

_Showtime._

Geralt munched absentmindedly on a hunk of bread, breathing in the fresh mountain air as he directed his horse towards the heart of the merchant district.  It was a short ride, but he relished the feeling of the crisp morning air through his hair and the warmth of the slowly rising sun on his cheeks.  As he cantered into the city, the stillness of the morning was shattered by the bustling of every day city life. 

He ignored the stares of the common folk and continued onwards.  He was used to it.  Witchers were welcome in Toussaint, but that didn’t mean that they were common.  

Eventually, it got too crowded for his liking, so he smoothly dismounted, tied his horse to a post at a watering trough, and continued on to the bar that lay directly across the square from the Cianfanelli bank.  He ordered ale, and sat down on a rickety metal chair on the patio, waiting patiently for his companion. 

His fingers drummed incessantly on the table in front of him as he mused over what he’d learned the day before about the Baron and Sophie-Marie.  He still had too many questions without answers, and he wasn’t impressed.   Barnabus-Basil had proven unhelpful as well; apparently he couldn’t talk about Sophie-Marie without waxing on about how lovely of a person she was. 

Geralt wasn’t so sure that she was worthy of the praise.  He was too old and too battle-weary to be naïve; he knew full well that people were rarely what they appeared to be.  He had a gut feeling that the noblewoman had held quite a few nasty little secrets close to her chest. 

_Maybe one of them got her killed._

Two drinks later, Damien finally deigned to show up to Geralt’s polite request for a meeting.  He clattered into the square on his war horse, frowning gently at Geralt, who at this point had put his booted feet up on the table. 

“Your manners certainly will not endear you to the owners of this establishment,” he said pointedly in greeting, gesturing widely at Geralt’s apparent disregard for etiquette. 

“I’ve been waiting for two hours,” Geralt said quietly, holding out his hand for what he’d asked for.  “You’re late.”

“Your message did not indicate a specific time.”

“First bells isn’t ambiguous, Damien.”

All that he got in response was an eye roll.  “Then you would have known that the streets are nearly impossible to pass through on horseback.”

“I’ve seen you walk,” Geralt said drily, looking expectantly at Damien’s bulging saddlebags.  “All I need is the order, and then I’ll be on my merry way.”

The last part was said with no small measure of sarcasm. 

After returning from the Baron’s estate, he’d sent a messenger pigeon with a request for a handwritten note from the Duchess.  Damien sighed deeply before reaching into his saddlebags and brandishing an elaborate scroll at Geralt. 

“Here you go.  I’ll ask you not to bother me with such trivialities again, Geralt.  I have a city to run, you know.”

“And I have nearly four dozen of your best knights to avenge.  I’d say that we’re even,” Geralt reminded him, not very gently.  Damien had the good grace to redden slightly; his breath puffed out in a huff as Geralt took the scroll and gently unrolled it.  A tiny scrap of parchment fell out of the long tube; he quickly caught it and read the message written in a neatly flowing noblewoman’s handwriting.

_There had better be a good reason for this, Geralt.  Use my order to finish the job that I have assigned you.  I will know if you use it otherwise._

_Bonne chance,_

_Anna Henrietta_

Smirking, he pocketed the note and strode across the square to the bank, completely ignoring Damien, who still sat astride his horse like a topper on a wedding cake.  Geralt raised one gauntlet-enclosed fist and knocked loudly on the metal door, which rang like a bell.  The bank wasn’t officially open this early in the morning, which suited him just fine. 

The door creaked open about an inch, revealing the ruddy face of the person that he was there to see. 

“Giacomo Cianfanelli.  Since when do you open your own door?”

The dwarf laughed, shaking his head as he opened the door even wider.  “The Duchess has made some rather unusual requests of me lately.  I saw the Lord de La Tour in the square and assumed that he was here to see me.”  

“Let me guess, she wants you to close any patron accounts and confiscate any and all of Dandelion’s assets?”

“Ye know that I cannae divulge any client information,” Giacomo chuckled, tapping his finger against his nose in a conspiratorial fashion as he led Geralt into the bank.  “But yes, ye’d be correct.  Now, what can I do for ye?  If ye’re here to take out more money, and it’s still in yer account, I havnae moved it-”

“I’m on a contract, and I need to know if you ever had business dealings with someone.”

“Now, I just told ye-“

“I don’t need their passcodes, I just need to know if you know about him,” Geralt said quietly, searching for patience as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.   Instead of wasting time explaining his contract he handed the scroll from the Duchess to the banker instead. 

Giacomo’s eyes widened as he read over the official directive, reddening a bit as he rerolled the parchment with hands that shook ever so slightly.  “I see.  So, I am able to accommodate her Grace’s request for an inquiry,” he said weakly, attempting a smile. 

It was more of a grimace. 

Geralt pocketed the document and crossed his arms, glancing at the bank employees.  “It’s a sensitive matter.”

“Aye, and ye’ll not find more discrete employees,” the dwarf said firmly, rustling his mustache and sighing in defeat.  “Go on then, Geralt.  What’s the name of the poor sod?”

“I’m looking for someone who calls himself “Gwaethe the Generous”.  If there’s anyone who would have information about him, it’s a banker.”

“Aye, I know him,” Giacomo muttered darkly, glancing around at the bank employees and gesturing for Geralt to follow him into his office.  He closed and locked the door, turning to half-glare at Geralt with an accusatory look in his eye. 

"Are ye sure we're talking about the same man?" 

“Blond hair and two different coloured eyes?”

“Aye, that’s him.”

Giacomo’s expression was stony, and he appeared to be on the verge of losing his cool.  Geralt prompted him to continue, very intrigued by his odd reaction.

“And?”

“And the bastard gave me bad gold!”  Giacomo thundered, still glaring at Geralt.  His golden eyes narrowed; he wasn’t in the mood to try to pull information out of the banker. 

“Go on then.”

“He took out a loan for twenty thousand florens and cheated me, the prick!”

“Hm.  How so?”

“It’s easier if I show you,” Giacomo grumped, waving with one beefy hand for Geralt to follow him down the hall.  “Twenty thousand florens- I should have known that the number was too high.  The loan was paid back in full in a few days, and I didnae think that anything was amiss until the interest rates jumped a few months later.”

“Why do the interest rates matter?”

“We didnae open the vault until then,” was the rumbled response. 

“I don’t need the backstory,” Geralt said shortly, his swords clinking in time to his long strides.  The dwarf harrumphed with annoyance before pulling a large, ornate key out of his pocket and he quickly unlocked a vault hidden behind a glamour spell.  Geralt put his hand around his medallion to quiet its vibrations; it was hard to concentrate on the conversation when the metal was trying to jump off of the chain. 

“Aye, yes ye do.  Take a look for yerself.  It’s still an active crime scene.”

Geralt’s eyebrows rose in surprise as the vault creaked open and the contents of the room were revealed.  Instead of gold or jewels, the room was filled to the brim with small bones; most likely the knucklebones of some sort of humanoid creature. 

_Nekker bones, looks like._

“You weren’t kidding,” Geralt said quietly, striding silently into the room and picking one of the bones up off the ground.  “So, the gold disappeared.”

“How the bastard managed to do it, I can’t figure out!”  Giacomo half-snarled, crossing his thick arms across his barrel chest and glaring at the room with no small measure of hatred.  “He disappeared, so I cannae collect what is owed to me.” 

“Hm.  Interesting.”

“It’s infuriating! The bank is spelled against all measures of magic, so I-what in Lebioda’s name are ye doing?”

He cut off as Geralt quickly licked one of the bones; his eyebrows rose so far up in his forehead that they nearly disappeared into his hat. 

Geralt ignored him; he was too busy sniffing the new wet mark on the bone.  “It’s not magic exactly, it’s Doppler blood.”

He knew that scent.  It smelt like cinnamon and burned lavender.  Doppler blood was so unique that it was impossible to miss. 

He suppressed a surge of annoyance; Dopplers were largely harmless, and to spell this many bones meant that the sorcerer had hunted several.  There was too much blood to leave any of the creatures alive.  His mind flashed to Dudu, and he had to close his eyes for a second to retain his calm demeanor. 

He wasn’t pleasant to anyone when he was annoyed. 

“I-uh-what?”

“Doppler blood.  He’s spelled the blood to transfigure the object the same way that a living Doppler would.  The bones aren’t under the influence of the magic, that’s how he got it in here without raising suspicion.”

“Well, poke me sideways,” the dwarf let out a growl of annoyance and turned on his heel, gesturing for Geralt to follow him once again.  “That’s just another reason for me to string his arse up when he dares show his face around these parts again.”

“You think he would?”  Geralt asked carefully, closing the office door behind him once again. “You think he’d be that stupid?”

“Stupid, no.  Arrogant, yes. Ye’d be shocked at how many people forget how long dwarves can live,” Giacomo replied darkly, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment and scribbling a long message.  “Tell ye what, if you can find him, I’ll give ye a cut of the money.”

“Sounds fair.  I’m on another contract though; the Duchess isn’t likely to be pleased if I take off on another one.”

“Witcher, if ye be lookin’ for him, he’s not a fresh mushroom.”

“I’m not familiar with that idiom,” Geralt muttered, trying to keep a small smirk off his face as Giacomo waved a hand at him in dismissal. 

“He’s a bad sort.  The Duchess wouldn’t mind that ye’ve got an extra incentive to finish the contract now, wouldn’t ye reckon?”

“Fair enough.”

“Find the cheatin’ bastard, Geralt.  Ye’d be doin’ us all a good, solid favor.”

“Do you know what he did with the money?”

“No, but it had to be fairly large-scale.  Try looking in the gambling dens, that’s my bet,” Giacomo admitted, scratching his head.  “Find out where my gold is, would ye?  It would be a grand thing to balance my books for the first time in fifteen years.”

“I’ll do my best,” Geralt sighed, pocketing Giacomo’s official request for a contract and turning to leave.  “By the way, how does the Baron of Montmartre have so much money?”

Giacomo blinked in confusion for a moment before reddening.  “Geralt, ye know that I can’t-“

“Remember Annarietta’s note,” Geralt reminded him, not so gently, before raising one eyebrow and crossing his arms.  He was left waiting for a good thirty seconds before the dwarf scowled and opened a file drawer and withdrawing a giant ledger. 

“Fine.  The Baron’s got an anonymous benefactor.  I suspect that it was the Lady Sophie-Marie.  She had a lot of money in her personal accounts when she died.”

“The accounts weren’t attached to the family estate?”

“Nay, they weren’t.  Her father asked for a separate one to be set up; his intention was to make sure that she was responsible with her money and to make investments.  Actions and consequences, I suppose.”

“He was the tax warden, I guess it makes sense.”

“Aye, but she never made half as much as his account is gifted on a yearly basis,” Giacomo said quizzically, staring at thick, age-stained ledger.  “Over the last fifteen years, her balance hasnae changed, and her father’s has nearly quadrupled.”

“Hm.  That’s odd.”

“Nothing about money is ever straightforward, witcher,” Giacomo sighed.  He closed the book with a loud thump, waving away the dust that flew into his face.  “Anything else?”

“Yeah, was Gwaethe courting the Baron’s daughter?”

“No idea.  I was a little busy running my bank,” Giacomo said pointedly, patting the ledger for emphasis.  “But, if he were, the Duchess would have known about it.”

“Thanks.”

Geralt turned on his heel and strode out of the bank.  His mind was whirring, ticking quickly over what he’d learned.  He made his way back to where he’d left Roach, and gave her a quick pat before swinging into the saddle and directing her towards home. 

She settled into a loping canter, and he let his mind wander. 

_So, this Gwaethe was involved in something that required twenty thousand florens.  If he hasn’t been seen in fifteen years, then he’s either long gone, or he’s changed his appearance._

He sighed. 

There were two people who could answer his questions about the art of magical cloaking.  One of them was currently in Kovir, and the other was probably rampaging around Nilfgaard. 

He decided to try Triss first; Yennifer was still angry with him for choosing Tris over her.  He wasn’t in the mood to bear the brunt of Yen’s passive (and straight out aggressive) comments about how he’d chosen to settle down without her. 

In a spur of the moment decision, he steered Roach to the left of the forking path, away from home and towards the Mere Lachaiselongue cemetery.  Roach let out a huff of annoyance, but he ignored it and spurred her into a full gallop. 

Half a mile from the site, he dismounted and unsheathed his silver sword.  With no hesitation, he reached into his pack and decanted a measure of cursed oil onto the blade.  He also palmed an Ekkimara decoction, uncorked the small, ornate bottle with his teeth and swallowed the bitter green mixture in one gulp.  Immediately, he felt the familiar burning of toxicity winding through his veins, and he felt the skin on his face begin to tingle in response to the mutagens that were currently attacking his cells. 

He grinned wolfishly at the feeling; he was going into a fight, and it had been a while since he’d had a challenge.   Without waiting for the odd feeling to pass, he darted into the woods, running as swiftly as he could towards the burial ground.  He leapt over several stone walls on nimble feet, landing softly and stalking forwards as deliberately as a hunting cat. 

His savage grin widened as he heard the telltale sound of emerging archespores.  Their hissing and spitting didn’t cause him any alarm; they were a stable presence in this particular graveyard.  They were an annoyance, but at least Geralt didn’t have to worry about any grave robbers foiling his investigation. 

Geralt’s head snapped to his right as the first archespore burst out of the ground, showering the graves around him with dirt and rocks.  He hit the ground and rolled in a quick somersault to avoid its attack; the acid began to bubble as soon as it had hit the ground where he’d be standing two seconds previously. 

Geralt adjusted his grip on his sword and swung hard at the base of the plant, ducking to avoid its thorny, thrashing tendrils.  The cursed plant shrieked with rage as he managed to cut though half of its stalk.  With no warning, it receded under the ground, directing its spores to release and burn Geralt.  He coughed into his sleeve, trying to ignore the watering of his eyes as he tracked the archespore underground.   He strafed backwards, tuning his sensitive hearing to the ground; he was hunting the creature with all of his senses. 

Thinking quickly, he cast Quen onto his body and readied Igni. 

A faint rumbling sound underneath his feet marked the presence of the archespore, and he took one measured step backwards.  His evasive manoeuver hadn’t come a second too soon; the archespore reared out of the earth mere inches from where his boots had rested.  Without waiting for the deadly plant to move, Geralt quickly cast Igni, and while it was stunned and burning fiercely, pirouetted and slashed downwards with his silver sword.  The hit was true, and he severed the stalk entirely, stepping backwards and waiting for the plant to topple under the weight of its head.

The archespore let out one final screech of rage before it crumbled lifelessly into the dirt.  Geralt took a moment to wipe his face and blade; ridding himself of the archespore juice that had splattered all over his face and arms as the plant had burned.   He returned his razor-sharp blade to its sheath, surveying the graveyard with no small measure of surprise. 

_They’re rarely alone._

The part of him that was still reacting to the decoction that continued to burn through his veins was disappointed that he hadn’t had the chance to kill more of them.  Usually there were at least four that would react to his presence in their hunting ground. 

The rest of him welcomed the chance to catch his breath and make some progress on his contracts.  He strode into the burial site, listening closely for any sign of returning archespores.  He found nothing, and let his raised sword arm drop to his side as he searched the gravestones for the name of the Baron’s daughter. 

It took him ages to find it.  He knew going into the graveyard that he was looking for a memorial statue, but the richer part of the property was home to hundreds of them, and he’d wasted two hours searching for it.   Sophie-Marie’s gravesite had been placed to the outskirts of the burial ground, behind a small shrine to Lebioda.  He wiped the dirt off of the marble tombstone, sighing deeply as he considered his next move.  He glanced up at her memorial statue, admitting (albeit somewhat grudgingly) that she was beautiful. 

_No wonder knights are jumping at the chance to save her._

His keen gaze swept over the nearby graves, searching for something that he could use to dig up the grave.  He knew that Annarietta would be furious at him for disturbing her friend’s resting place, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that three of the lady’s personal objects had given off the reek of necromancy.  He had to know if her body was where it was supposed to be. 

He trusted his instincts, and they told him that she wasn’t there. 

Finally, he spotted a shovel sticking out of the ground about a hundred yards away.  He loped over to it, palmed it in one gauntleted hand, and began to dig once he’d returned to the grave. He muttered out a quiet apology to Sophie-Marie, ever mindful of the possibility that he could awaken her wraith if she was in fact still in the coffin. 

He held Yrden at the ready, just in case.

The ground had been hard-packed over time, and he began to sweat.  The rhythmic sound of his gravedigging was oddly soothing, and he settled into a comfortable state of physical exertion.  His breath came only slightly faster, and his body rapidly adjusted to his new heartrate; being a mutant had its perks. 

By the time the shovel impacted with the stone of the lady’s sarcophagus, the sun was low in the sky.  Geralt let out a quiet sigh; the only downside to burying bodies deep so that ghouls couldn’t get to them was that it took a hell of a lot of effort to unearth anything. 

He twisted his nimble fingers into the Aard sign and blasted away the dirt and debris that clung to the porous stone of the coffin.  Using his strength, he managed to get his fingers between the lid and the main portion of the vessel.  He took a deep breath to infuse his muscles with oxygen, and pushed hard with his mutagen-enhanced legs. 

The coffin released its lid with a protest; the grinding of two stone slabs against one another as they moved apart set Geralt’s teeth on edge.  He tossed the lid aside, not even wincing as it hit the ground with a thunderous crash. 

He peered into the coffin, his heart dropping as his suspicions were confirmed. 

The body wasn’t in the coffin; it was completely empty.

_Why couldn’t this contract just be an easy missing person’s case?_  Geralt thought grumpily, replacing the coffin lid and whistling for Roach.

_The Duchess has some explaining to do.  Who is this sorcerer?  What’s the story with the Baron?_

_When I said that I wanted to go back onto the Path, I meant that I wanted to go griffin hunting._

Geralt sighed as Roach trotted into view.  “Let’s go home.”


	5. Where There's Smoke, There's Deithwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt pays another visit to the Duchess. A call to Kovir reunites him with some old friends, and Geralt remembers how much he dislikes math.

Dust drifted through the brilliant shaft of sunlight illuminating the grand room where Geralt sat impatiently in a gilded velvet chair.  He drummed his long, scarred fingers on the mahogany table; the sound was muffled by the parchment of the contract that he was incessantly rereading.  His mind whirled with questions as he mulled over everything that he knew about his mission thus far. 

He wasn’t happy.

Firstly, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t necessarily been lied to, but he suspected that he’d been fed several half-truths about the state of Sophie-Marie’s friendship with the Duchess. 

Secondly, on his way back from the Mere Lachaiselongue cemetery (covered in dirt and plant ichor of course), he’d easily spotted two of Damien’s men attempting to follow him home.   He’d waited for them on the road and very patiently explained to them that if he ever caught them snooping around after him again, he wasn’t likely to stop and have a nice chat.  He’d decided then and there to send them scurrying back to the Duchess with a request for a meeting. ff

Thirdly, he wanted to know why nothing had been done until now about the deaths of so many knights, given that Toussaint’s economy and culture was largely dependent on them.  Forty-eight young men dead within a generation was a devastating blow to the nobility’s ability to marry their children to one another, even with the high death toll of gladiator-style tournament fights and questing.   Something didn’t feel right.

Last but not least, he needed to know what the duchess knew about the sorcerer who had his hands in several different cookie jars. 

Given that any magic user who could present a threat during peacetime and be used as an asset during war (Nilfgaard was terribly particular about their army’s strength at all times) was required to register with the government, if Gwaethe had lived in Toussaint for any notable measure of time then there was likely a record of him at the royal court.

Irritably, Geralt traced a long (and very rude word), into the condensation that beaded on the side of his wine glass.  Unable to sit still any longer, he quickly levered himself to his feet and strode over to the window.  He stood silently, watching the sun trace across the sky for two hours as he grew increasingly more irritable.

_The more time wasted, the more lives could be lost._

Just as he was about to turn and leave (consequences be damned), he heard the sound of slippered feet on plush carpet outside the ornate wooden door that separated him from the hallway. 

He crossed his arms and waited, not reacting whatsoever as the Duchess threw the door open and swept into the room, flanked by Damien and another man whom Geralt didn’t know.

“Witcher,” Annarietta greeted him brusquely, raising one eyebrow with poorly concealed irritation when he only awarded her entrance with a small nod. 

“Your Grace,” he murmured; his golden gaze flicked over her companions, and then settled back on her.  To his (albeit very small) flicker of satisfaction, she wilted ever so slightly.  A pale flush settled into her cheeks as he very pointedly looked towards the door.

She got the hint, loud and clear.

_I have a feeling that you’re not going to want these two to hear this conversation._

The Duchess let out a tiny huff before waving her hand.  “No, they will stay.  Really, Geralt, you’re making it very difficult for me to believe that you’re here to do anything more than waste my time.”

“Your Grace, you wanted updates,” he reminded her, not very gently, “I can’t do my job properly and keep certain sensitive secrets under wraps if I’m being followed.”

Damien at least had the good grace to look away with embarrassment as Annarietta threw her shoulders back and glared at Geralt, looking every inch a queen.  “I wasn’t getting answers after three days, and it is well within my right to ensure that you weren’t off taking other contracts and wasting time!”

“I was following a lead,” Geralt said bluntly, narrowing his eyes at her, “Pouting and stamping your feet isn’t going to do anything but annoy me.  My job is to find the answers to your questions, and it turns out that I need some answers from you as well.  I’m here for two reasons.”

“You tread dangerously close to impertinence, witcher,” she said quietly, half-spitting out the words as she attempted to rein in her irritation with his bluntness.  Normally, he would put some effort into choosing his words, but he wasn’t in the mood to mince about; people were dying and there was necromancy afoot.  

“Time is of the essence here, your Grace, and I would prefer to be on my way as quickly as possible.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but clearly thought better of it and simply waved her hand imperiously at him to continue. 

“First, I have questions about Sophie-Marie’s life at court.”

“And the second thing?”

“We’ll get to that later.  It’ll make more sense if you start at the beginning.”

“Very well, Geralt,” she acquiesced slowly, watching him intently with her bright, corn-flower blue eyes.  “Well, since you clearly intend to command me, what do you wish to know?”

“I think it’s time you told me what happened between you two when Sophie-Marie informed you that she wanted to leave for Nilfgaard,” he started, leaning back into the window nook.  He didn’t miss the way that her heartbeat increased and her shoulders tensed; she was hiding something.

“You don’t have any right to speak to me in that manner,” she snapped, crossing her arms defensively, “I am _not_ a child.”

“I’m old enough that everyone in this room is a child to me.  As far as I’m concerned, you are,” Geralt retorted, smoothing his expression into one of neutrality; he wasn’t here to judge her.  

_Not yet, at least.  Guess I’ll wait to see what her answers are._

Damien took a half-step forward as his hand flicked towards the pommel of his sword.  His expression was thunderous, and his cheeks shone a bright tomato-red as he opened his mouth, no doubt to give Geralt a tongue lashing.

Geralt welcomed the micro-aggression; it meant that he’d trod on some sensitive information that might actually come in handy.  He adjusted the tension in his hamstrings slightly, affording his toes enough grip on the too-soft carpeting to pivot neatly if needed.  His momentary flicker of excitement was quite thoroughly dashed as Annarietta threw up a hand, stalling Damien in his tracks and silently commanding him to step down and sit. 

_Trained like a good hound, huh._

Slowly, torturously so, Damien took a seat beside the spot where the Duchess was standing, followed by the strange man who had yet to be introduced to Geralt.  The witcher remained standing; he preferred to observe the occupants of the room on his own terms.  It was easier to read body language from the figurative higher ground.

Strangely, Annarietta waved away Damien’s offer to pull out a chair for her; she ran a hand over her ornately styled curls, clearly debating how much she was willing to tell Geralt about the whole situation.

Finally, the Duchess sighed.  “Fine.  What do you want to know?” 

“Did you try to stop her from leaving?”

Annarietta’s expression held a competing mixture of emotions, most of which bordered on anger and guilt. Determination flickered across her eyes and she firmly clasped her hands in front of her bodice.  She slowly walked forward and placed her hand on one of the ornate chairs that sat at the long, dark dining table.  Damien jumped forward and pulled the chair out for her, ensuring she was comfortably seated before pouring her a generous glass of wine. 

Geralt’s eyebrows rose slightly as she took two large gulps before taking a steadying breath and raising her gaze to finally meet his. 

“Where should I begin?”  She asked softly, clutching the goblet with an elegant, white-knuckled grip. 

“Let’s start with the fight,” Geralt murmured; his assumption that the conversation had ended badly was confirmed when she bit her lip and looked away.  For all intents and purposes, she looked exactly like a child who had to be coaxed into telling the truth. 

“You have to understand something, Geralt, my marriage was…well, it was torture,” she said bluntly, staring into her wine as if it afforded comfort in its mirrored surface, “My husband was a great man to the outside world, but as soon as he was out of the public eye he would become cruel and abusive.”

“I’ve heard stories,” Geralt murmured carefully, nodding gently for her to continue.

She took a shaky breath.  “I was young, and far more willing to forgive than I am now.  I believed that if I was the epitome of a perfect Duchess that he would grow to love and respect me.  I was mistaken; it seemed to anger him even further that I was willing to overlook his lack of honour.”

“Sophie-Marie was the only friend whom I told about the abuse.  She was the one who would go to a sorcerer and fetch me a magic ointment for the bruises and the scars that he left on me.”  She raised her head to glare at Geralt. 

_Just like Vivienne’s salve.  I wonder how many of the ladies at court use those tinctures.  All men of Toussaint are good and honourable, my ass._

“You cannot understand what we went through.  I would have died to protect her.  She was my closest companion, always helping others, even at the expense of her own health.  Sophie very nearly was caught helping me several times by my husband, whose rage made her fear for her life.”

“What happened when she told you that she wanted to leave?”

Annarietta’s shoulders fell slightly, and she placed her now-empty goblet on the table with a shaking hand.  “I lost my temper.  I feared the isolation and abandonment of her absence, and I uttered some foolish and cruel words to her that I suspect led her to also fear my wrath.”

“What did you say?”

She bit her lip, and a stubborn mask of determination slid over her mien as she raised her head.  “It doesn’t matter.  I have made a vow never to repeat such reprehensive behaviour.  All that you are required to know is that I hurt her very badly, and as a result, drove away my closest friend.”

“How long was it until she died?”

“Three months” was the sad reply; the Duchess’s eyes were rimmed with red, and she hurriedly looked away as a single tear slipped down her cheek.  She gracefully accepted the handkerchief that the unknown mad smoothly offered her, wiping her cheek with as much dignity as she could muster. 

“So, just long enough for her to travel to Kovir and back, then she died,” Geralt murmured, pacing back and forth in a tight circle, “That’s why she started acting strangely.  Did you think that she was still planning to leave?”

Annarietta shook her head; her chestnut hair whispered across the shoulders of her gown as she did so.  “No, I knew that she travelled to Kovir.  She went on my orders.  I bade her to go and fetch me some gowns that I had ordered from the North.”

“You thought you’d convinced her to stay.  Her father tells a different story.  She went for her own pleasure.”

“I cannot believe that.  Of course I sent her!  I commanded her to-“ she cut off, looking away from Geralt as she struggled to keep a firm grip on her composure.  Annarietta took a deep breath; the façade of calm indifference that she favored slid over her face once more. 

“I believed that sending her on a long errand might cool any resentment that she harboured for me.  Nothing appeared to be amiss when she returned, and then she fell grievously ill.”

Geralt leaned against the table, thinking.  After a long moment he sighed.  His amber gaze flicked back over the Duchess, and he decided to tell her what he knew. 

“Your Grace, she was still planning to leave.  Her father confirmed it.  What I need to know, is whether she planned to go with anyone or meet anyone there,” he said pointedly, raising one eyebrow to convey his meaning. 

Annarietta sucked in a shocked breath and slid her trembling fist onto the table.  Her knuckles were white; she was clearly unnerved by his question. “I-I shan’t deign to answer such an insensitive question-“

“I don’t need to know the details,” he muttered, annoyed by her sudden distaste for the scandalous details. 

Damien cleared his throat abruptly, and inclined his head respectfully at the Duchess before waving one giant, gauntleted hand at the man who had yet to introduce himself.  “Your Enlightened Highness, perhaps Renardier can be of some assistance to you in this matter.  I have asked him along to answer any inquiries that you may have.”

Geralt’s gaze flicked up towards the silent man.  The sunlight glinted off of his bald pate as he respectfully bowed.

“Certainly, Your Grace.  I can confirm that the Lady Sophie-Marie was indeed planning to leave Toussaint in the company of another.”

“Explain yourself,” Annarietta demanded sharply, sitting bolt upright and staring at Renardier with a mixture of disbelief and anger. 

“Of course, your Grace.  Good witcher, I am the minister of transportation, infrastructure, and the harbour master for the waters of Toussaint,” Renardier began, lacing his long fingers in front of his chest.  “The gentle lady in question arranged for two people to be spirited away to Velen.  Her tragic passing led me to the belief that it was no longer necessary to inform anyone of her plans.”

Annarietta opened and then closed her mouth rapidly several times, looking for all intents and purposes like a fish searching for food.  Geralt stifled a tiny smirk and returned his attention to Renardier. 

“Who was she taking with her?” 

Renardier looked away.  His heartbeat thudded unsteadily as he answered. “There wasn’t a name, good sir, but he was recorded in the logs as her husband.”

Annarietta let out an oath that was so foul that Geralt couldn’t smother his chuckle. 

“That leads me right into my next question,” he said smoothly, attempting to keep a smirk off of his lips as the Duchess fumed in her seat.

“At this point, I doubt much could surprise us,” Damien said drily, glancing at Geralt out of the corner of his eye. 

“The sorcerer who gave you the potions to hide your abuse, was his name Gwaethe?” Geralt asked quietly, already sure that he knew the answer.

Annarietta’s head swivelled to face him, and she glared at him with a look so steely that he was impressed.

“How in Lebioda’s name did you know that?!”  She demanded, clenching her sleeves so hard in her iron grip that Geralt’s sensitive hearing could pick up the straining of the stitches on the shoulders of her gown.

“Gut feeling.  This particular sorcerer keeps showing up.  He was known to the Baron, and Damien mentioned that he had expressed interest in Sophie-Marie.”

Geralt ignored the wave of amusement that bubbled up in his belly as the Duchess’s glare slid away from him and came to rest on her (very guilty) Captain of the Guard.

“Damien, you knew that she was…involved with him?”  She asked quietly, dangerously so in Geralt’s humble opinion.

“She gave no indication whatsoever that she returned his affections,” Damien replied gruffly, avoiding her gaze.  “I had no concerns about their acquaintance.”

Geralt wasn’t in the mood to mediate Annarietta’s temper, and he quickly bowed to the Duchess.  Her surprise overrode her fury, and she tilted her head to stare at him as he straightened.  “Where do you think you are going, Geralt?”  She asked quietly, expressing a tiny challenge. 

_Now’s not the time to ask her why she’s letting her healthy male population die.  That’ll come later.  I’d like to keep my head today._

Geralt sighed.  “Your Grace, I found out what I needed to know.  I’ll require the official court record of the sorcerer, and a list of any significant items or holdings that cost upwards of twenty thousand florins fifteen years ago.  Or debts to the crown.”

Renardier nodded respectfully at Geralt, surprising him.  “An excellent idea, My Lord.  I would have suggested something similar myself, however, the question about the value of twenty thousand florins is somewhat unclear…?”

Geralt jerked his thumb towards Beauclair proper, which spread out below the windows of the palace like a bejewelled cloak.  “He stole that amount from the Cianfanelli bank around the time that Sophie-Marie died.  If they were planning to leave together, it would stand that he took the money and ran.  I need to know if he stuck around, which is why I asked for the court record.”

“He left.”

Annarietta’s quiet answer made Geralt’s slitted pupils widen slightly.  She held herself proudly, but her eyes were rid-rimmed with impending tears.  “You will have any of the documentation that you need.”

“Thank you, your help makes my job easier,” he replied.  He meant every word. 

Geralt bobbed another quick half bow and left the room.  He’d managed to answer some of his questions, but as per usual, that only meant that more were bound to crop up. 

He needed to talk to Triss. 

The thought put a small smile on his face, and he picked up his pace just slightly. 

* * *

 

Geralt gently placed the last of the gemstones into its perch, stepping back to survey the newly rebuilt megascope that stood in his sitting room.  B.B. bustled into the room with an armful of parchment and a newly sharpened quill.  At Geralt’s inquisitive glance, he simply inclined his head. 

“Sir, I have taken the liberty of clearing my schedule for the next few hours.  Lady Triss may perhaps be able to give us enough information that we are required to take notes.”

Geralt nodded at his major-domo; his steely expression softened.  He had told Barnabus-Basil about the developments in the case, and he’d been pleasantly surprised to see Barnabus’ tune change.  He had shifted his opinion of Geralt’s contract; it was clear that B.B. now considered it a matter of honour that Geralt see it through to its completion. 

Geralt almost regretted mentioning that Sophie-Marie may have secretly married a sorcerer; he’d thought that B.B. might keel right over and die in the dining room.  After he’d recovered from the shock, however, he’d hopped right to work.

Geralt adjusted his position and keyed up Aard.  Taking a deep breath, he concentrated and nimbly twisted his fingers into the proper sign.  Just as he’d expected, the tiny, concentrated concussion blast activated the crystals, causing them to glow and pulse with brilliant blue light. 

“Here goes nothing,” Geralt said, tapping out a predetermined set of knocks on the closest crystal.  It was the equivalent of knocking on a megascope’s door; if Triss was around to hear it, she would know immediately who was calling. 

After what felt like an eternity (but was probably no more than two minutes), the crystals began to glow more brightly and pulse to their own beat. 

The corner of Geralt’s mouth ticked up in a smile as he saw it; Triss was answering. 

A halo of swirling colour formed as the mirrors that surrounded the device focused the light that flickered from candles strategically placed within the circle of the machine on the far wall.  Geralt’s expression broke into a soft smile as Triss rippled into view, grinning at him.

“Hi, stranger,” she greeted softly, sweeping a tendril of her fire-red hair over her ear.  “This is unexpected.  What do you need help with?”

“I can’t just call you?”  Geralt asked drily, crossing his arms and mock-rolling his eyes at her.  “I’m hurt.”

She laughed.  “I know you too well.  I’m coming home in a few weeks, so I definitely know that you need my help-“

Triss cut off as someone in the background asked a question, and Geralt sighed.  He knew that voice. 

“Hey, Yen,” he called, cocking his head slightly to the side as Yennefer swirled into the view of the megascope.  Her brilliant eyes narrowed at him, and he fought the urge to chuckle at the thunderous expression on her face.

_Actually, I have some questions that she could answer too.  Blessing in disguise, I guess._

“I’ve asked you not to call me that anymore, Geralt,” she told him loftily; although her steely expression softened somewhat as he uncrossed his arms and held his palms up in supplication. 

“Sorry, old habit,” he murmured, raising one eyebrow at the two sorceresses who peered through the viewfinder.  “Did I interrupt something?”

“No!”  Triss said quickly, just as Yennefer answered “yes!”.   The sorceresses glared at each other.

“That’s ambiguous,” Geralt chuckled softly, grinning as B.B. let out an almost imperceptible huff of mirth. 

Triss shook her head.  “There’s some drama with Philippa, but what else is new?”

Yennefer laughed coldly, shaking her raven hair over her shoulders.  “It may amuse you, Geralt, to know that she intends to meddle with Lambert and Kiera’s relationship.  Not to mention your own.”

“Why am I not surprised.  What’s her problem?”  He replied, already feeling a trickle of annoyance swirling into his belly.

Triss sighed and leaned against her desk.  “She wants the Lodge to work separately from witchers; she seems to think that you end up at odds with us too often.”

“Philippa thinks that she’s outnumbered,” Geralt said darkly, narrowing his eyes in thought.  “She didn’t have a problem with us when I was helping her get rid of Radovid and saving her life.”

His eyebrows shot straight upwards as B.B. let out a tiny gasp of horror, and he glanced over his shoulder.  Part of him was annoyed at the major-domo’s reaction, but the other, rational part of him firmly reminded Geralt that there was no way that the exact circumstance of Radovid’s death had been made public.  Witchers already had a hard enough time; regicide wasn’t something that they wanted to be known for. 

“I helped out a sorceress to save several people who I care for,” he said bluntly, nodding in approval as B.B.’s scandalized expression softened. 

 _If there’s one thing that they understand in Toussaint, it’s doing the honourable thing,_ he thought appreciatively, turning his attention back to what Triss and Yen were saying. 

“She’s insane if she thinks that putting some crazy rule in place is going to stop relationships between our two factions,” Triss was saying, waving her hands in the air.  “If anything, it’s just going to make you more attractive to us, forbidden fruit and all.”

Geralt grinned; her last statement had been accompanied by a very meaningful, saucy look in his direction.  He actually did let out a chuckle as Yen’s expression darkened, and she let out a loud “harrumph!”

“Really, you two.  Have some shame,” she said loudly, crossing her arms.  “She’s jealous of Lambert’s fascination with Kiera.”

Triss laughed, shrugging.  “She did save his life.  I would be bamboozled too.”

“I hate to interrupt, especially when we’re bashing Philippa, but you were right.  I do need your help,” Geralt interjected gently, gesturing at B.B., who was listening to the conversation in rapt silence.  “I took on a contract that might have something to do with a necromancer.”

Triss slid off of her desk and approached the megascope.  “That doesn’t sound good.  What’s the problem?”

“There’s a noblewoman who died a long time ago who’s apparently been seen walking out and about.  Her body’s missing from her burial place; I checked.  I’m investigating the family, and they’ve given me several good reasons to think that something’s up.  It turns out that she was probably married to someone in secret before she died, and I need to know if you two are familiar with him.”

“You think she’s been reanimated?”  Triss asked curiously, tilting her head to the side as she thought. 

“I’m not sure.  But all signs are pointing towards it, so I’d say yes,” Geralt admitted. 

Yen strode back into the view of the megascope, one eyebrow raised.  “I’m likely to know his name, what is it?”

“Apparently he went by “Gwaethe” down here-“

Geralt cut off as Yennefer’s face paled and she lunged towards the beam of the megascope.  B.B. yelped and fell off his stool as she darted closer; Geralt couldn’t blame him, if he wasn’t used to Yen, he probably would have reacted too.

“Where is he?!” She demanded, her lip rising into a sneer as her eyes grew larger, magnified by the mega scope’s slight fisheye effect. 

“I don’t know.  I was hoping you could tell me,” Geralt replied.  His interest was piqued by Yen’s reaction, but he knew better than to think that she would be connected to Gwaethe for a reason that he would be happy about. 

“He’s the necromancer who had the greenhouse, right?” Triss interjected, waving a hand to placate Yennefer, who still stood very close to the scope with her hands planted on her hips. 

“Yes, and he made some promises that he never kept,” Yen hissed, tapping her black booted foot.  “Geralt, how the _hell_ do you know him?”

“It’s complicated.  He stole a lot of money from Giacomo Cianfanelli, may have married the Baron of Montmartre’s daughter in secret, and then brought her back from the dead,” Geralt replied, fighting to keep a grin off of his face as the sorceresses exchanged meaningful looks. 

“Well, that sounds like him,” Triss said drily, shaking her head at Geralt.  “I’ve never met him, but Yen has.”

“Yen, how do you know him?”

“It’s a personal matter,” Yennefer began, wilting slightly as Triss glared at her, “Fine.  I helped him a few decades ago.  He brought a magic problem to me, one that involved balancing the cost of a life against the toll of reanimation.  I helped him, with the understanding that he would help me in return.  I never received my payment.”

“Which was?”  Geralt pressed, already knowing in his bones what the answer was.  “Yen, it wasn’t a golden dragon hide, was it..?”

She turned a very dark shade of puce and turned away.  Her raven hair whispered across her shoulders as she did, and Geralt couldn’t help the stab of pity that asserted itself right above his breastbone as she spoke next; her voice was rough with emotion. 

“It doesn’t matter now.  As I said before, it was a personal matter.”

“Yen-“ Triss said softly, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder, “We don’t have to bring that up now-“

“You’re quite correct,” Yennefer said sharply, quickly wiping her eyes and adjusting her corset as she pivoted to face Geralt and B.B.  “So, what are you going to do with him?”

“First I need to find him,” Geralt replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at B.B., who once again sat primly on his stool.  “I’ve got a friend writing down anything that you can tell me about him.”

“Barnabus-Basil!”  Triss exclaimed, smiling broadly into the blank space above Geralt’s shoulder.  “I didn’t see you there!  Thank you for helping Geralt while I’m gone.”

“It is my humblest honour, my Lady,” B.B. replied easily, bowing slightly.  Before his face turned away from Geralt, the witcher caught the hint of a blush burning across the small man’s cheeks.

He bit the inside of his own cheek to keep from laughing and brought up his first question. 

“I hear he’s blond.  What colour are the eyes?”

“One blue, and one green,” Yennifer answered, tapping her forefinger against her chin as she thought.  “His hair wasn’t a true blond, more of an ashy colour.”

“Build?”

“Lithe, not very muscular.  He wasn’t fond of exercise,” Yen replied loftily, waving a hand.  “He considered himself a master gardener; he spent most of his time cultivating rare plants.”

“Was he good with herbs?  Especially deadly ones?”

“Of course.  Necromancers have an intimate relationship with death, Geralt.  It’s often a fascination of ours to control it.”  

Her matter of fact response didn’t bother him.  He knew exactly how her mind worked.  It was simply a matter of control. 

“That explains how he knew the Duchess.  He used to give her maidservant salves and creams to camouflage the marks that the Duke left on her,” Geralt said darkly.  He knew that his eyes had narrowed to slits, and his hands had curled into fists.  He could feel his nails biting into his callused palms.

“I heard about him,” Triss muttered.  She closed her eyes and unconsciously ran a hand over her right wrist, where Geralt himself had once pried a dimeritium cuff from her skin.  “Some of the rumours made Radovid look warm and fuzzy.”

“That’s one way to put it.  Did he have any quirks that could identify him?  If he’s still around here, then he might be wearing a different face,” Geralt asked softly, glancing over his shoulder as B.B.’s quill scratched along his parchment.

“He used to have a nervous tick; he would fiddle with a ring on his pointer finger,” Yennefer mused, her beautiful features scrunching up into a frown as she tried to remember.  “He also has a tattoo on his right shoulder of a phrase in the Elder Speech.”

If Geralt was prone to surprise, his jaw would have dropped open.  “Was the phrase “Deithwen”?”

Yennefer’s violet gaze snapped onto his, and she narrowed her eyes.  “Yes.  How on earth did you know that?”

“The Baron’s daughter repeated it in a fever-fog for days before she died,” Geralt answered quietly.  His brain whirred quickly over what he knew.  He decided to take a stab in the dark. 

“How much more powerful is a reanimation incantation if the person is bonded to the caster before they actually die?”

Triss’s eyes widened.  “Infinitely more powerful.  It’s a rule of magic; if there are two people bonded to the same spell, it’s got the power of two people backing it.  Basic physics, the energy in is equivalent to the energy output.  But, if you take one of the casters away after the spell is established, then one person requires the energy from two people to power the magic.”

“Would the cost be enough to require the life energy of a person? On a time frame of about every four months, let’s say?” 

Yennefer let out a shocked laugh; she shook her head incredulously at Geralt.  “Yes, that’s precisely it.  That matches the formula that we came up with almost perfectly.  Really, Geralt, I think you’d better tell us what’s actually going on in Beauclair.”

“Simple.  The Baron’s daughter had a falling out with the Duchess, went to Kovir to get away for a while.   She married someone, died, and then came back from the dead.  The trouble is that she’s able to lure knights out to look for her.  I need to find Gwaethe to confirm whether or not he’s killing them on purpose or just because they stumble across his hideout.”

Yennefer’s mouth split into a savage grin.  “So they’ve lost nearly fifty knights and the Duchess is just looking into it now?  Ridiculous, if you ask me.”

“Keep it quiet from Emir, Yen,” Geralt said firmly, shaking his head as she opened her mouth to argue. “It’s not worth the trouble of getting him involved.  If Gwaethe’s hiding out in Nilfgaard, then you can do whatever you want to him.  Can you check and see if the Baron’s daughter had any contacts in the North that would have helped her flee Toussaint?”

“I could ask around.  You needn’t remind me to be subtle,” she sniffed, pointing her nose up towards the mega scope’s still swirling pool of light.  “If there’s anyone who knows anything, I’ll find them.”

Triss spoke quietly, tapping her booted foot on the wooden floor of her office.  “Let me look into things here.  Someone might know something about where she went and who she spoke to while she was in Kovir.”

“I’ll check my records, but I should be able to tell you exactly what kind of spell he would be using, and how to shatter it,” Yennefer added, raising one eyebrow in thought.  “Are you intending to kill him?”

“Not sure yet,” Geralt replied honestly, shrugging.  “I haven’t got any sure fire proof that he’s actually behind all of this yet.  Someone might be framing him, I don’t know.”

“Well, either way, I’m coming home early,” Triss said firmly, raising her head to look determinedly into the megascope.

“Triss-“ Geralt began, waving his gauntleted hand.  “I’ve got it handled-“

“I never said that you weren’t capable, Geralt,” she cut in, raising one eyebrow as the look in her bright eyes hardened, turning them to chips of emerald.  “But you’re dealing with someone who isn’t afraid to use dark magic.  You might need more than your signs to get the drop on Gwaethe, especially since Yen taught him some of what she knows.  Besides, my presence might be enough to lure him out into the open.”

Geralt wisely shut his mouth. 

Yennefer flicked an invisible speck of dust from her cuff and turned to face Geralt once more.  “She’s right.  I’ll inquire here about any recent sightings or purchases; we don’t usually keep hidden for more than a few years at a time. His clothes would be dreadfully unfashionable if he hid for more than half a decade.”

Geralt punched down the urge to chuckle.  If only he’d known that finding a sorcerer in hiding was as easy as scrutinizing their clothes.  Somehow, he knew that Dandelion would have a knack for it.

“If I may interrupt, Lady Yennefer,” B.B. inquired from the corner, trotting into the view of the megascope, “Master Geralt has expressed his suspicions that the sorcerer in question may have made a very large purchase fifteen years ago.   With the past exchange rate with Nilfgaard, it may perhaps be prudent to investigate what that sum of money could have purchased within all of the Empire’s territories at the time.”

“Excellent idea,” Yennefer answered brusquely, stepping out of view.  “Goodbye, Geralt.   I’ll be in touch if I uncover anything.”

“Bye, Yen,” he called softly, turning his attention back to Triss.  “That went better than I expected.”

She laughed.  “She’s not the big-bad rage monster that you’ve built up in your head, dearest.”

“Easy for you to say, she didn’t portal you into a lake,” Geralt grumbled. 

“She was grieving, Geralt.  And, you can’t blame her for being upset; you did spend a long time together.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced reluctantly.  “When do you think you’ll get here?  I know it’s a long road-“

Her laugh made a small smile slide across his mouth.  “What?”

“I think I’ll portal this time,” she answered, grinning at him, “Unless you want to wait another two weeks to see me?”

“Nope,” he answered immediately, his eyes dancing with mirth.  “That’s fine with me.”

“Good, I’ll see you in two days,” she murmured.  A split second before the megascope beam flashed out of sight, she blew him a kiss and winked.  His grin widened, and he coughed suddenly as B.B. sighed, right beside him.

He’d completely forgotten that the major-domo was still there.

“A lovely lady, as always,” Barnabus-Basil said admiringly, sighing with contentment.  “I shall ready the house for her arrival.”

“Thanks, B.B-“

Geralt cut off as a thunderous knock sounded at the front door.  His hand was on his sword before he’d even thought to loosen it in its sheath, and he forcibly reminded himself to relax as his steward jumped backwards, his glasses askew. 

“Really, Master Geralt, we are in _Toussaint_ -“ B.B. chastised him as he quickly righted his doublet and high-stepped down the stairs, his immaculate shoes clicking along the marble tiles of the entry way.  Geralt followed behind, curious as to who had come to call.

The door opened, revealing Giacomo Cianfanelli, who was standing rather bow-leggedly on the front step; his body was nearly hidden under a stack of ledgers. 

“Hey, Giacomo,”  Geralt greeted him, taking three quarters of the books from the dwarf’s arms and placing them with ease on the large mahogany table in the corner of the room.  “This is a surprise.”

“Aye?  Well it bloody shouldn’t be-“ the dwarf grumbled, stepping over the entryway and shoving the rest of the volumes into Geralt’s arms.  Ignoring B.B.’s gasp of horror, he crossed his arms.  “The Duchess ordered me to provide you with all accounts of purchases made in the sum of twenty thousand florens in the year 1260.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said weakly, quickly adding up how many books there were.  “That’s a lot-“

_I hate math._

“I’ve got more in the carriage-“ Giacomo interrupted him, gesturing with one thick thumb towards the base of the front steps outside.  “I’ve also brought ye all of the account information of the knights who’ve died on quests in the time period.  Sir De La Tour thought ye might be needin’ those as well. Also, the court records of all healers, medics, wise-women, sorcerers, and drug addicts who scammed the nobility into thinking that they could divine the future.”

Geralt sighed.  “And the Baron of Montmartre’s accounts too?”

“Ah, now you’re catching on, Geralt.”  Giacomo’s chuckle was tinged with dark glee as two of his servants dutifully stacked dozens of ledgers in the front entryway. 

B.B.’s mouth dropped open as Geralt turned to him.  “How good are you at math, B.B.?”

“I am e-excellent at sums, sir,” Barnabus-Basil stammered out, still staring with dismay at the dusty books now scattered all over his immaculately-kept house. 

“Good.  We’ve got work to do,” Geralt rumbled, snagging one of the top ledgers and striding into the dining room.  He flung himself into one of the upholstered chairs and lit one of the chandeliers with a snap of his fingers. 

_Triss can’t get here soon enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you again for your patience as I take forever to get through this story. I'm almost finished my big whopper of a story, and I've made a promise to myself to finish the fics that I already have before starting another. So, I should be able to focus on this one very shortly. 
> 
> The golden dragon hide reference is from the books- they're rumored to be an ingredient in a potion/spell (it's not really made clear) that can reverse a sorceress' infertility. Yennefer wants one really badly, so at one point she follows a lead on one and accidentally runs into Geralt. It's in one of the auxiliary books I believe- I'm pretty sure it's in the Sword of Destiny.  
> Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) xx


	6. Now That's a Hustle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt makes a discovery that connects the missing knights. Triss arrives at Corvo Bianco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, not really sure how to start this off. I haven't updated in so long because I've had a lot in my personal life just exploding at once- not because I don't want to write this story- tbh it's become very therapeutic to write. Just as a little note, um, if you're struggling with your mental health, PLEASE reach out and get help. That's all I think I can say for the moment. But on a more positive note, I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) 
> 
> All my love. xx

Rain drummed steadily on the roof of the villa, lulling its occupants into a lazy half-doze.  Geralt rubbed impatiently at his eye as he slammed yet another ledger shut, irritably waving away a cloud of dust that rose up in a billowing haze from its pages.  He glanced out of the glazed glass window, itching to return to the Path.  He’d been pouring over the paperwork for almost two full days, and he was anxious to make some sort of progress.

He’d already descended into a dark mood when he’d found no mention of Gwaethe in the records of court sorcerers.  He’d checked against the pellar, herbalist, doctor, and soothsayer records and had found exactly nothing.  Somehow, Gwaethe had managed to erase all trace of his activities at court. 

Half of Geralt was impressed; the other half was deeply annoyed. 

Geralt had to admit that he was darkly amused at the thought of Emir reacting to the state of the court in Toussaint.  The White Flame Dancing Upon the Graves of His Foes never responded well to failure. 

The records of purchases made in the sum of twenty thousand florens checked out too, which didn’t help his mood.  It was all accounted for by credible nobles who had purchased horses, houses, whores, and haberdashery, and it had all been obtained by legal loans and credit notes to boot. 

Geralt drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. 

“That’s another dead end,” he remarked, glancing over at B.B., who looked to be on the verge of falling asleep, “Found anything that connects the knights?”

“I have also not found a connection, Master Geralt,” Barnabus said stiffly, trying his best to squash a yawn that threatened to escape.  He succeeded, but only just.

“Take a break, B.B.,” Geralt replied softly, turning away to hide the half-smile that curled over his lips.  “You’ve helped enough.  We’re almost halfway through the ledgers.”

“Thank you, sir.  However, I doubt that I will be able to sleep peacefully knowing that we have failed to foil the villain who plagues Toussaint,” B.B. replied stiffly, taking a large gulp of wine and settling himself more rigidly in his chair. 

“Thanks for rubbing it in,” Geralt said flatly.

His majordomo had the good grace to pink slightly.  “There was no offence meant, sir.”

Geralt sighed.  “I know.  What have we actually got done?”

“The knights who are unaccounted for number forty eight in total, and they have been sorted into that pile.”  B.B. gestured to the large, unsteadily stacked pile of ledgers to Geralt’s right. “I cannot say that we have made any more progress than that.  The remainder of the entries have been sorted into those who died in tourneys, of sickness, or on quests that allowed their bodies to be accounted for.”

“There’s something that I’m missing,” Geralt mused, indicating all of the ledgers with a jerk of his head.  “Why would the sorcerer go after knights?  It would be easier to lure an unsuspecting peasant to their death-“

He cut off as something occurred to him. 

“Barnabus, do we have a ledger that details how much each of the missing knights-errant were worth?”

“I don’t follow, sir.”

“None of the knights left behind wills, don’t you find that odd?”

“Word of mouth agreements are often enough in Toussaint, sir-“

Geralt waved his hands impatiently, searching for the best way to explain what he was thinking.  “The knights that were tricked into searching for Sophie-Marie, I think that they were specifically targeted.  What I don’t know is why.”

“We have already perused the ledgers that detail the quests and tourneys that were afforded to the knights, sir,” Barnabus said dejectedly, indicating another small pile of books to Geralt’s right. 

“That’s not what I’m asking.  I want to know how much they were _worth_.  I’m curious about the wealth that they had.”

 “Including all of their inheritances, stipends, tax collections, and businesses?”

“All of it,” Geralt said firmly. 

He stood smoothly and strode across the room.  Impatiently, he grabbed the nearest ledger and turned to the table of contents laid out on the first page.  He skimmed over the numbered pages before selecting one knight at random and opening the page. 

“Sir Reginaud von Groteliere.  Aged forty-one at the time of his disappearance,” Geralt muttered, thinking hard as he stared at the elegantly inked information.  “Listen to this.  He owned several small vineyards that were all sold on the same day.  He drained his bank accounts and then he officially disappeared thirteen days later.”

_Odd.  That by itself is strange._

“The family actually owned six vineyards, however three were bought and turned into granaries to supply the Empire’s ever-growing needs within the last ten years,” Barnabus supplied helpfully, adjusting his spectacles and sniffing.  “I’m afraid that the family found themselves on the wrong side of the lovely Duchess when Reginaud declined the honour of escorting the Lady Sophie-Marie to the Pont Dechartre horse races sixteen years ago.  They had some difficulty finding connections who were willing to buy them out.”

“Hm,” Geralt replied noncommittally, turning the page.  “Know anything about a guy called, uh, Airsmre aux La Marchembre..?”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes as B.B. immediately corrected his clumsy pronunciation of the name.  “Fine.  Who was he?”

“He was the Court valtz champion three years in a row,” Barnabus-Basil said instantly, tapping his chin as he thought.  “His family was a vassal to the Baron of Pont-Montmartre.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.  _There was a connection between the men._  

“Were any of the missing knights non-nobles at birth?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Anyone who wasn’t from old money?”

“No sir, every member of the list came from ancient and most distinguished families.  The majority of which were proudly of Toussaint from birth, however, there was an influx of Nilfgaardian nobles after we became the vassal state of the most glorious Empire.”

Geralt chose to ignore the patriotic bit.

“Hang on, back up,” Geralt said shortly, pointing to the ledger.  “If I tell you the names of the missing knights, can you tell me if they knew Sophie-Marie?”

“Naturally, sir.”

Geralt squashed a flicker of annoyance and placed the book on the dining room table.  He palmed an apple and took a bite, thinking. 

“We’ve been looking for the wrong connections.  Sophie-Marie’s ghost, or whatever she is, is luring in people who knew her.”

“To take their money?”

Geralt’s expression darkened.  “Mages live a long time, B.B., and they have expensive tastes.”

“You are suggesting that the lady is willingly participating in this horrid scheme?”  Barnabus said slowly, placing a shaking hand against his sternum as if to brace himself.  “Master Geralt, then no one who was ever in her social circles is safe!”

“It’s possible that he’s just using her image, yes, but I don’t think that Gwaethe would have all of the dirt on these knights without her help.”

“Sir, that would imply that the lady was not as she appeared!”  Barnabus shook his head violently, clearly distraught by the proposal.  “She was good, and generous, and-“

“People aren’t always what they seem,” Geralt said firmly, crossing his arms. “Anyone is capable of anything.”

“I shall respectfully disagree with you, Master Geralt, until such time that I have no choice,” B.B. said stiffly. 

Geralt was about to respond when his medallion pulsed.  It vibrated violently against his jerkin, rattling insistently through his skin.  A small smile turned up the corner of his mouth as he turned his head to the side, just in time to see a portal wink into existence in the junction between the dining room and the foyer. 

_Right on time._

The scent of cinnamon swept through the room, rustling the pages of the ledgers as a warm breeze. 

His smile widened as Triss rippled into view, striding through the portal as if it were as easy as walking across a solid wooden bridge.  Her bright eyes searched the room until her gaze settled on Geralt, and her somber expression split into a sunny smile. 

His feet were carrying him across the room before his mind caught up.  Triss met him halfway, wrapping her arms around his neck as she melted against him.  She was halfway through saying hello when he silenced her with a kiss.  Geralt smirked as she sighed softly against his mouth; he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of her unrestrained affection.  Geralt relished Triss’ laugh of surprise and delight as he swept her into his arms. 

“Someone’s excited to see me,” she said brightly, bracing her hands against Geralt’s chest.  “I just spoke to you two days ago.”

“Mmhm, but that was a long-distance chat,” Geralt rumbled, cradling her face with his callused palm.  “It’s not the same thing.”

“No, it certainly isn’t,” she said lowly.  Her eyes twinkled with mirth, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat as she gently pressed her lips to his in another kiss.  He drew her ever closer, only pulling back as she made a small sound of protest. 

“Careful, we’re not all built to withstand crushing blows.  I thought we had work to do,” she murmured, sweeping a strand of her fiery hair behind her ear as he gently set her down.  Her hands smoothed up Geralt’s arm, and he very seriously considered just scooping her up again and hiding upstairs for a very long time, the contract be damned.  Triss, ever observant, noticed the flicker of regret that flitted across his expression and leaned to whisper in his ear.  

“As soon as you catch me up, we can do whatever it is that you’re thinking about,” she breathed, blushing brightly as the heat of his gaze settled on her.  Geralt watched her admiringly as she stepped away from the curve of his arm and greeted B.B., who was as red as a tomato. 

He’d completely forgotten about his majordomo, but he didn’t deny the fact that there was a small part of him that very much enjoyed provoking the ever proper man. 

Geralt’s gaze travelled up the length of Triss’ long legs, the curve of her waist, and the carefully crafted leather corset that she wore before sweeping over her expression as she spoke to Barnabus. 

_She’s tired.  I can smell the peppermint ointment that she uses to conceal exhaustion and dark circles on her.  Hm.  The way that she’s standing…looks like she’s been doing a lot of paperwork, her left shoulder’s sitting slightly lower than her right._

His thoughts were interrupted as Triss glanced over her shoulder.  Their gazes met, and she gave a minute nod of affirmation; she had a few things to discuss in private. 

“So, what’s all this?”  Triss asked, indicating the piles of ledgers with a wave of her hand.  Geralt fought the urge to sigh. 

“Gifts from the bank and the Duchess,” he replied shortly, impatiently running a hand over his week-old beard.  “We’re looking for connections between the missing knights.”

Triss cocked her head to the side and slid a ledger off of the largest pile.  She opened up the first page and stuck her tongue between her teeth as she read.  “Have you found anything that’s promising?”

“Not exactly,” Geralt admitted.  “They all knew Sophie, but we’re trying to figure out why they were targeted.”

“Oh?”

“The connections aren’t exactly revealing themselves,” Geralt grumbled, shaking his head.  “No one thought to organize the books by relevance.  We have to go through them one by one.”

Triss made a small sound of agreement before tapping her chin with her finger.  “I learned a few useful sorting spells when the Lodge first got together.  Sile was a piece of work, but her libraries were in flawless order.  What are the search parameters?”

If Geralt was prone to open shock, his mouth would have dropped open.  “So I could have just asked you to search for the overlaps,” he said ruefully, scratching his head.  “May as well try it.  B.B.?”

“Ahem, yes.  Right.  Perhaps we should sort the knights by date of disappearance first,” B.B. answered quickly, adjusting his spectacles.  “A timeline should be established.”

Triss nodded, raising her hands. They began to glow with a flickering red light, and Geralt was (not for the first time) impressed by the extent of her magic as the bindings of the ledgers slowly unwound themselves and the pages swirled around the room.  The temperature in the dining area began to rise as Triss concentrated, moving her hands and fingers in complex signs that Geralt couldn’t even begin to decipher. 

“ _Darganfod te creasa_!”  Triss commanded, waving her hands one last time as the whirling pages rearranged themselves in a neat line in the air.  They danced and spun around her as she quickly spread her fingers, allowing the pages to bloom outwards into a spinning ribbon of paper. 

“Okay!  Anything else you want to know?  I can sort them into smaller groups from here.”

Geralt whistled softly.  “Right.  Cross reference that with how much money they had in their bank accounts when they disappeared.”

Triss nodded.  With a twist of her hands, the pages fluttered into six spinning groups. 

B.B., who was standing in the corner of the room with his mouth hanging open like a goldfish, regained his senses and consulted the inventory sheet that he’d kept on his workstation.  “The next query should be the social proximity of the knight to the Lady Sophie-Marie!”

Triss obliged, sweeping her arms around in a circle.  The pages spun and danced, snapping and fluttering into a straight line once more.  “ _Darganfod te creasa_!”

“The last thing to look for was when they took the last of their money out of their accounts,” Geralt murmured. 

Triss concentrated once more.  Her brows knotted together as she spun her hands into another sign, commanding the pages to move. 

“ _Darganfod te creasa_!”  She snapped, glancing at Geralt in confusion when the pages didn’t move any further.  “I don’t understand why-oh!  Geralt, they all drained their accounts thirteen days before they disappeared!  There’s nothing to differentiate them.”

“That’s good, thanks.  You can put them down now.” 

Geralt’s golden eyes narrowed ever so slightly as the pages rippled one last time, slowly descending towards the floor as Triss lowered her arms.  She didn’t appear to be drained from the spell, but Geralt could hear her slightly accelerated heartrate. 

Geralt gathered the pages together.  He knelt on the dining room floor, spreading the parchment and paper in a line according to where they’d arranged themselves in the air.  Geralt nodded appreciatively; his theory appeared to pan out. 

“Triss,” he said slowly, glancing up at her, “Thanks.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she smiled at him.  “I couldn’t let you boys have all of the fun.  What do you see now?”

“Money,” Geralt said grimly.  “They’re getting killed for their fortunes.”

“How much are we talking about?”  Triss asked, bending down to parse through the pages to Geralt’s right.  “Looks like they were fairly wealthy.”

“Look at the amounts of money.”  Geralt pointed to the first three pages.  “Three knights disappeared in the first year after Sophie died.”

Triss’ eyes widened.  “Geralt, they were worth ninety thousand a year each!”

B.B. joined them, tapping on two of the names. “These two men were brothers.  The money was shared between them, as far as I understand it.  The brothers of the family Chermont aux D’Eaux were amicable with the Baron’s family.  The children were educated together in Beauclair.”

Geralt chuckled softly, nodding to himself as he thought.  “Our search just got easier.”

“How so?”  Triss asked, raising an eyebrow.  “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Geralt grinned, although there was no mirth in the expression.  “We’re not looking for a property or person that’s only worth twenty thousand; we’re looking for one that’s upwards of half a million.  Anyone who’s collecting this kind of money would spend it.”

Triss’ slow grin spread across her face as she caught on.  “There can’t be that many properties or places that they could go where that kind of money wouldn’t be noticed.”

“Sir, I’ve found something else!”  Barnabus exclaimed, gesturing animatedly with yet another book.  “The Baron’s accounts received the first payment from the anonymous benefactor in the exact amount that the elder brother held in his accounts.  The money was deposited in the Baron’s account precisely seven days after Sir Eroldkinder disappeared!”

“That’s a magical number,” Triss muttered, toying anxiously with her amulet.  “If I had any doubts that a sorcerer was behind this, they’re gone now.”

Geralt glanced to the side, his golden eyes narrowing.  “Need any more proof that Sophie-Marie’s involved?”

Triss shook her head sadly, running her fingers across the numbers that were inked in the bank’s records.  “All of these men died so that a mage and his wife could live in secret.  How cruel.”

“Triss,” Geralt said quietly, reaching out to brush his fingertips along the length of her arm.  “What’s done is done.”

“I know that,” she whispered, turning her head to hide the sheen of emotion in her eyes.  “I should be used to how selfish people can be.  I guess I haven’t learned that lesson yet.”

B.B. took that very opportune moment to bustle out of the room, presumably to gather refreshments. 

Geralt met Triss’ somber gaze as she finally turned her head back towards him.  His steely expression softened as he smoothly rose to his feet, offering her his hand.  She took it and stood silently with him for a moment.  He didn’t say anything; he was content to wait for her to finish her thought.  His blood pulsed quickly through his veins at the warmth of her touch, and she gently squeezed his hand before letting go and stepping away. 

“When I add that to what I learned in Kovir, it makes this whole thing even sadder,” Triss murmured, crossing her arms across her stomach.  

Geralt settled back against the dining room table as she paced, speaking quickly as she thought. 

“I used some of my contacts at court to find out if anyone knew anything about Sophie.  Turns out the Nilfgaardian ambassador was the one who got them a marriage license,” Triss said darkly, toying with a lock of her hair.  

“What did he say?”  Geralt asked curiously, crossing his arms with interest.  “Did he know that it was against Annarietta’s orders?”

“Yes!”  Triss exclaimed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.  “He didn’t want to tell me anything, but he didn’t have a choice.  I’m embarrassed to admit that I used some of my political power to force him to tell me everything-”

Her expression darkened as she cut off.  Triss resumed her pacing with a renewed fervour, much to Geralt’s quiet amusement. 

“What’s the story?”  Geralt asked quietly, watching as she marked a path across the floor.  Her boots clicked against the polished wood.  As she swept past once again, he caught a hint of her scent; honeysuckle and cinnamon. 

He forced himself to focus.  Triss made a small sound of exasperation.

“There isn’t much to tell.  Armand managed to get them the license, but it cost them twenty thousand florens. Why he charged them that much, I don’t know-“

“That’s the amount that Gwaethe stole from the Cianfanelli bank,” Geralt supplied, shaking his head.  “It’s starting to make sense now.”

“Enlighten me, would you?”  Triss sighed and half-threw herself into one of the dining room chairs.  “My head’s spinning.  I’m sorry, Geralt, I wish I could be of more help.”

“I’ve got it handled.  The money that was stolen from the bank before Sophie died was to pay off the ambassador when she travelled to Kovir.  When she came back, she got her affairs in order.  After that, she got sick.”

“Do we know if she actually died?”

“Nope.”

“Hm, that’s concerning,” Triss muttered, toying with a loose thread on her sleeve.  “So we’re assuming that there’s necromancy at work because knights are disappearing.”

“In her house, there were three objects from her bedroom that were moved; they didn’t match the dust that coated everything else.”

“What were they?”  Triss asked sharply, now sitting rigidly in her chair. 

“A mirror, a comb, and a quill.”

Triss swore.  Geralt asked a silent question by raising one eyebrow. 

“Sorry, I was surprised,” Triss said darkly.  “That’s one of Yen’s more poetic reanimation spells.  When I first met her, she was trying to find a way to reverse our infertility, and she used three things that represented her most important attributes as a sorceress to try and jumpstart a reverse reaction.”

“What were they supposed to represent?”  Geralt asked slowly, frowning. 

“The comb had something to do with the threads of life; there’s an ancient story about three sisters who use hair to determine fate.  It’s Zerrikanian, I think.  The mirror is the beauty that she gained with her powers, and the quill is the weapon of her mind and will.”

“Why would that apply to a noblewoman?” 

Triss bit her lip with worry.  “I think something else is going on here.  If she wanted to be with her husband forever, it’s possible that they tried to make her into something that could survive the ages with him.  In a sense, the human in her died, and something else rose in her place.”

She trailed off meaningfully. 

Geralt’s eyes widened slightly with understanding.  “They needed the money to make her into a sorceress.”

“It’s a theory, but it’s entirely possible.  I need to see the items for the spell and run some tests, but I should be able to rule it out.  The only thing that bothers me is why the knights are killed on such a regular basis.”

“You think something went wrong.”

“Yes,” Triss let out a long breath, waving her hands as she gathered her thoughts.  “It wouldn’t follow Yen’s energy replacement theorem so perfectly if everything had worked out well.  I think she might be something in between; in other words, something went wrong and she isn’t alive or dead.”

Geralt’s expression darkened.  “Like a curse.”

“Exactly.”    

“She might be searching for a way to break it.”

Triss nodded.  “That might explain why they need so much money.  If Gwaethe is anything like how Yen remembers him, he’ll buy the most expensive things that he can get his hands on.”

“Sounds about right.  The knights that disappeared first were the richest, and also the closest to her, according to B.B., anyways.  What I can’t wrap my head around is why the Baron is receiving payments.”

Triss shrugged.  “It’s simple; she loves her father.  Maybe Gwaethe doesn’t know how much she’s sending to him.”

“I hear she was a philanthropist,” Geralt remarked drily.  “Fifteen years is a long time to run this con.”

“You don’t sound satisfied,” Triss said pointedly.  She tapped her finger against her chin.  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not sure why they didn’t just go after the Duchess herself.”

Geralt nodded.  “One person would have solved all of their problems.  She’d be hard to attack directly, but she feels guilty enough over their last fight to be a good target.”

“Oh, I see where you’re going with this!  I think it’s as simple as the predator explanation.”

“You gonna elaborate?”  Geralt asked wryly, allowing the corners of his mouth to turn up.  “Are Sophie and Gwaethe the prey or the predator?”

Triss laughed.  “They’re the sharks.  They had to pick the smaller fish, because they couldn’t hope to go after the whale, so to speak.  You will never breathe a word of this conversation to the Duchess, by the way.” Triss pointed an accusing finger towards Geralt, who was chuckling at the thought of Annarietta’s reaction to being referred to as a whale. 

Grinning, he nodded at her to continue.  Triss laughed as well, turning red as she finished her thought. 

“So the longer the scam went on, less money was available.  They started picking the next most suitable knights.  The smaller fish are the only ones still alive at this point.   Meanwhile, they’re still alive and reaping the benefits.”

“Alright,” Geralt confirmed, tapping his finger thoughtfully against his bicep, “Not a bad idea.”

“Do you think that the Baron is in on the plan?”

Geralt sighed.  “No, I don’t think that he was lying.  He seemed upset that his daughter might be alive.”

“Wouldn’t you be?  This whole situation makes me feel ill.  Do you think that there’s a reason for all this that doesn’t just equal the deaths of dozens of innocent people?”

“Honestly?  No.” 

Triss laughed bitterly.  “So things are just great everywhere.  Good to know.”

“Triss.”

“Yes?”

Geralt settled down next to her, watching her intently.  “The king’s got you in the middle of something dangerous.”

His statement wasn’t a question. 

Triss’ lower lip was caught between her teeth as she thought, and Geralt forced his gaze away from her now slightly-reddened lip.  She spoke quietly, running a hand across her eyes.  “Politics are dangerous, so that’s nothing new.  Tankred’s a decent man, and a just king.  It’s just Philippa and Yen.  Now that the Lodge is mostly back together…well, you know what they’re like.”

She trailed off, and Geralt didn’t need to ask to know what weighed on her mind. 

“Philippa can’t do anything to you, you know that.”

“No, but her objections are causing a rift between the members, and that’s the last thing that we need right now, after everything that happened in Redania, and Temeria, and then in Skellige-“

“What’s the damage?”

“Philippa and Ida are very much against Witchers and sorceresses having relationships, apparently now that the White Frost is defeated, the prophecy is finished, so, there’s no more need for an alliance.  Yen, Rita, and Fringilla seem to be neutral.  Kiera and I are the only voices of reason; apparently the other members have forgotten that we’re stronger together.”

“I won’t let them get between us.  Ignore them,” Geralt said firmly, smiling gently as her dark expression lightened slightly.  “We’ll deal with that later.”

“Wow, Toussaint is really getting to you,” she murmured, reaching over to brush her thumb across his cheek.  “When did you get so romantic?”

“Something in the air, I guess,” he replied playfully.  “What do you want to know?  I know that look.”

“This contract, how did you even come across it?”

“It was hanging outside the Cockatrice,” Geralt rumbled, leaning back in his chair.  “It didn’t seem too difficult.  I thought I was looking for a runaway daughter.”

“Well it’s a little more than you bargained for,” Triss chuckled.  “What’s the next step?”

“We’ll go back to the Baron.”

Triss hummed thoughtfully.  “We should contact Yen as well; she may have learned something that can lead us towards Gwaethe.  We should update her on the amount of money that she’s looking for.”

Geralt sighed.  “I might have to go and visit the Duchess again.  I don’t really wanna go alone-”

The corner of his mouth turned upwards as Triss’ expression lit up.  “What?”

“Does that mean that you’ll wear your black doublet?”  She asked playfully, wagging her finger at him. 

Geralt scowled.  “I don’t have a choice.”

“Maybe _we’ll_ have to go and see her,” Triss said teasingly, standing up and spinning around.  She shot Geralt a coy look over her shoulder.  “I don’t get to see you all dressed up very often.  So, I think I might be a little bit selfish and insist-“

She cut off as Geralt darted to his feet and swept her into his arms.  “Geralt!”

“I can think of a lot of things that are a lot more interesting than that,” he said lowly, striding towards the stairs.  She shook her head at him, but she was smiling.  He ascended the steps with ease, relishing the warm bubble of joy that bloomed in his chest as Triss (very helpfully) undid the knots on his jerkin. 

“Oh?”

At the top of the stairs, Geralt replaced Triss on her feet.  She hopped up on her tiptoes to kiss him, and he had to very forcibly remind himself to answer her question when she nipped playfully at his lip. 

“Starting with my new bed,” he said with difficulty, quickly unlacing her outer corset with practised ease.

“What happened to the old one..?” She asked breathlessly, trailing off as his lips burned a path from her collarbone to her ear.  Her tiny sigh of pleasure spurred him onwards, and he smoothed a hand over the curve of her behind, lifting her with ease.  She automatically wrapped her legs around his waist as he manoeuvered them backwards, towards the master bedchamber. 

“It wasn’t big enough,” Geralt rumbled, pushing his bedroom door open with his knee.  Triss didn’t protest as he quickly deposited her down on the aforementioned bed with ease.  She stretched languidly, watching him as he closed the door and locked it.  A sly, catlike grin spread over her mouth as he stalked towards her, shedding his loose linen shirt as he did so.  With a lazy flick of her fingers, Triss ignited the candles placed around the room, lighting up the space with a golden glow. 

“You’re stealing my thunder,” Geralt remarked, running a calloused hand over her hip and pulling her closer.  “I was going to light those.”

“You can do it next time,” Triss said breathlessly, arching into his touch.  He smirked. 

“I’ll take you up on that,” he murmured, hitching her leg up around his hip as he bent down to kiss her.

“Careful, I might start to think that you missed me,” Triss purred, sighing with contentment as he put one knee on the bed, carefully balancing on top of her as she sank down on the down-filled cushions. 

“Mmhm, would that be so bad?”  Geralt asked, working one hand between the ties on her linen undershirt.  His other hand worked at the ties of her pants.  She helped, although their hands were clumsy with haste.  “I heard that distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

She hummed her agreement and pressed closer, kissing him with a passion that he’d come to miss.  “You can stop talking now,” she breathed, gently dragging her nails down his spine.  “I’d rather try out this new bed.”

Geralt found himself agreeing wholeheartedly.  He lost himself in her warmth; basking in how responsive she was to his touch, and the way that she called out his name.  Yeah, he’d missed her an awful lot.   

Later, when they were nothing but a pile of tangled limbs and post-coital bliss, Triss finally spoke. 

“I think Toussaint has been good for you,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this cheerful.”

Geralt chuckled softly.  “Until this contact came up, I was bored.”

“Hm, maybe that’s better than carrying the weight of the world,” Triss reminded him softly, propping herself up on one elbow.  Geralt couldn’t help that his gaze followed the path of the bedsheet that dipped ever lower on her shoulder.  He forced his attention back to the present and sighed.

“It was simple.”

“I get it.  There weren’t many shades of grey to deal with.  Life feels more complicated now,” Triss said ruefully, running a hand over her newly freed hair.  Geralt carded his hand through her soft tresses, marvelling at the way that the fiery strands caught the candlelight.  With his augmented vision, the glow of the candles made her hair look just like liquid fire. 

“It was always complicated.  Now it’s just the same pest contracts over and over again,” he muttered. 

“No wonder you jumped at this one,” Triss murmured.  She snuggled closer to his side, and Geralt let the silence sit for a few moments before he couldn’t keep his burning question to himself any longer. 

“So…what did you think of my last letter?”

Geralt was slightly discomforted by the unfamiliar note of worry in his tone; he wasn’t usually timid or insecure around Triss, but he couldn’t keep his question at bay any longer.  She had neglected to directly answer a question that he’d asked in their last correspondence, and he wasn’t sure how to take her silence.  Ever the straightforward type, Geralt wanted an answer out in the open. 

She hesitated, looking down at her hands.  “Geralt…things in Kovir are going really well, I can’t just abandon the council.”

“They’re politicians, not children,” Geralt said grumpily, not so gently pushing his hair away from his face.  She glared half-heartedly at him. 

“In a few months I’ll feel comfortable enough to leave for a while.  I promise that I want to be here, with you.  We can retire here, for good.”  

If Geralt could purr, he would have.  Warmth flickered to life in his chest, and he could feel his neutral expression softening as Triss watched him with her ever expressive eyes. 

_Fine.  What’s another year?_

“Where have I heard that before,” Geralt said drily, shifting his golden gaze to meet hers.  “Witchers live a long time, I’ll wait.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as she leaned over to kiss him.  Anything that he was about to say was lost as she tugged at his shoulder, encouraging him to roll on top of her once more. 

“Good, I’m not done with you yet.”

The next day brought with it insistent bird calls and a loud banging at the front door.  Geralt’s golden eyes snapped open at the sound, and he was out of bed and halfway to his swords before the last knock had echoed through the house.  Triss sleepily climbed out of bed, shrugging into a robe that she conjured from her trunk at the foot of the bed. 

Geralt only did the same after she threw another plush robe at him and huffed. 

“I don’t need this,” he said shortly, striding towards the door with his steel sword loosened in its scabbard.  She rolled her eyes and gestured at his naked body. 

“What if it’s someone that you can’t afford to offend?  Just put it on.  I’ll put an illusion on it.  It’ll look like armour.”

Geralt grumbled his agreement, but he was already halfway down the stairs.  He impatiently pulled the silk of the robe over his shoulders as he hauled the front door open.  Magic whispered over his skin at Triss’ murmured incantation, and he fought the urge to shrug it off. 

“What?”  He demanded, glaring into the half-darkness outside the door.  “This had better be important-Giles?”

He cut off mid-sentence as the Baron of Pont-Montmartre bowed gracefully.  Geralt’s eyes narrowed; this was the last thing that he’d expected to see before dawn.  He replaced his blade in its scabbard and stepped into the entryway of the grand house, gesturing for the lord to follow him.  Geralt resisted the urge to glare at Barnabus as he rushed into the entryway, babbling excuses and apologies to the lord for not being immediately available to open the door. 

As far as Geralt was concerned, the Baron should have waited until the morning to bother him. 

Triss gracefully made her way down the steps, cocking her head curiously to the side as Geralt led Giles into the dining room. 

“It’s early, my Lord,” Geralt finally said, nodding subtly at Triss to join the conversation.  She did so, somehow looking regal in her bedclothes.  Giles had the good grace to redden, looking away in embarrassment as he took the offered seat at the table and gratefully accepted the glass of wine that Barnabus seemed to conjure from thin air. 

“My apologies, Master Witcher.  I have been unable to sleep for some time.”

“What’s the problem?” 

“The Duchess sent a letter,” Giles replied stiffly, grasping his goblet with a grip tight enough to turn his knuckles white.  “She accused me of a number of things that I found to be terribly offensive.  I had hoped that you could enlighten me as to what is going on.”

Geralt caught the note of warning in his tone; it was loud and clear.  His already dark mood descended further towards the black as he crossed his arms.  “The story’s getting more complicated by the day.  I have some questions of my own that I’d like answered, if you don’t mind.”

Triss’ eyebrows shot upwards at the darkness in his low, gravelly tone.  If Geralt was prone to looking sheepish, he would have sported a bright red blush on his cheeks in response to the quietly chastising cast of her face.  She swept into the room and settled into the chair next to Giles. 

“This must be difficult for you.  Can you tell us what the Duchess said in her letter?”

Giles sighed, running a hand over his unlined face.  “Annarietta is under the impression that I sent Sophie-Marie to Kovir to allow her to elope with that sorcerer that we discussed.  Did you know this, uh, Madame?”

“Triss Merigold.  I’m currently King Tankred’s advisor, which allowed me to help Geralt with his inquiry about your daughter,” Triss replied merrily, smiling gently.  Her affable manner made Giles relax somewhat, and Geralt released a breath that he’d only been half-aware that he’d been holding. 

“Triss arrived this afternoon, she just told me what happened.  Annarietta must be doing some investigating of her own,” Geralt grumbled.  “Sophie-Marie met with the Nilfgaardian ambassador and bought a marriage license.”

“I did not know,” Giles whispered.  His face had paled, and he shakily raised his goblet to his lips.  After a hearty sip of the deep red wine, he stared into the ruby liquid as if it held some of the answers that he sought.  “My own daughter married a stranger behind my back?”

“It seems so,” Triss said carefully, darting a concerned glance at Geralt.   “We have some questions that we also need answered, as Geralt so delicately put it.”

_Great.   Looks like we’re going to have to move our schedule up._

Geralt sighed deeply.  “Come on.  Let’s go see Annarietta.”

Triss’ eyebrows shot upwards.  “Now?”

“Now,” Geralt said firmly.  “I’m tired of her interfering. We’re leaving in ten minutes. “

With that, he strode upstairs to where his dreaded black doublet lay in a drawer.  He wasn’t in the mood for games, and his path upstairs was punctuated by muttered curses.  He hated that doublet.

 

 

 


End file.
